Song for the Solo Dancer
by iscariot
Summary: A Greg story about being true to oneself: or it was, god only knows now..COMPLETED
1.

_This is my first piece of CSI Fan fiction, I'd like to dedicate it to someone who writes an awful lot of CSI fan-fic and whose writing inspired me to give it a go, so – even if you never read it, Michmak, this one's for you._

_Please read and review and let me know if it's [1] any good and [2] worth continuing._

_BTW: Usual disclaimers etc. PG13. I don't have a beta, so all errors are my own **sigh**_

* * *

**23/10/11: **_I am currently on a brief break from my other fics, so have decided to come back and revise this Fic – the early chapters anyway. By revise I mean 'pay attention to grammar/ spelling/ syntax. What normally happens is that I get an idea adn run with the idea and don't pay attention to anything else ... this Fic got away on me and turned into a 126k monster. The later chapters got far more complex and I started paying attention to my 'craft' – the first 6-8 chapters however ...*shudder*: so this is my attempt to tidy a few things up._

* * *

_All the world's a stage, and all the men and women merely players. _

_They have their exits and their entrances; And one man in his time plays many parts._

_(**As You Like It:** Act II, Scene VII)._

* * *

The night shift had finished hours ago, but Greg was still there; hunched over the latest collection of samples, fragments - and some blue 'thing' that Catherine had given him on her way out the door. Resembling nothing so much as the like the mutant child of silly-putty and a tarantula, the substance had defiantly defeated the lab tech's best efforts at identification; in fact, Greg could have sworn it was watching him.

Way ... way too much caffeine, he thought.

The previous night shift had been ... and Greg mentally groped for an appropriate analogy, different. There had been nothing particularly grotesque or even malevolent in the events of the evening but the situations the CSI's were called to investigate were uniformly bizarre.

Nick and Sarah had been at the Metro Rise Parking Building, investigating a car that had backed itself off the twelfth floor and landed on a charter bus - which minutes earlier had been filled with nuns. There had been no driver in the car, and no sign of impact or applied force on either the car's bumper on indeed on the floor of the parking building from whence it had come. (No one had wanted to suggest that the car had jumped

Warwick and Catherine spent the better part of the evening at an industrial chemist's lab which, to all intents and purposes, had dissolved leaving little more than a brightly coloured, and highly toxic puddle; it was, incidentally, where the glowering blue thing currently residing on Greg's desk had come from.

Grissom had come in late that evening - as he had been delivering a lecture up at the University; something about: Exoskeletal Biodiversity and Habitat Diversification or, as Nick succinctly put it: When Bugs Go House-Hunting. Grissom seemed in an ebullient mood that evening, which did little to dampen the surreal bite in the air.

Jim Brass was heard muttering something about the bloody full moon as he hurriedly left to investigate reports about a bodies being found in the local cemetery.

And Greg sat and stared at the blue mystery …

... Which stared back.

Things would have been far easier if the Mass Spectrometer hadn't committed suicide earlier in the evening; it's final, pained gasp emitted in the plume of magical blue smoke that wafted towards the ceiling as a defiant, yet poetic, elegy to American manufacturing.

As was often the case, a lack of external distraction turned Greg's thoughts inwards. Far from the exuberant, somewhat manic, personality his colleagues had come to associate with him, Greg had a serious side that was rarely seen. In addition to his degree in chemistry, Greg also held a degree in musical composition and it amused him at times to think that he probably knew more about the (omnipresent) classical music, which poured forth from Grissom's office, than Grissom himself. It was only through the intervention of fate that he had ended up as a forensic chemist. He had finished both degrees and was planning to undertake post-graduate study at one of the better conservatories on the West coast when his mentor, a remarkable old woman named Violet, had been savagely murdered in a home invasion. With Violet's death a part of Greg died too and the young man turned to science for he could no longer find joy in music.

In a way, his work with the police became almost a redemptive crusade, an attempted to assuage the guilt he felt at not being there for Violet when she needed him most.

It was that loss and the decision to turn his back on his passion that was now effectively undermining Greg's relationship with the CSI's.

Clichéd it may have been, but when you aren't happy with yourself others will not exactly relish in the opportunity to share your company; hell, Greg didn't even want to spend time with himself. Greg had come to the realisation that the lack of music in his life was ensuring that he was little more than a shadow and that his unorthodox behaviour was little more than a substitute for the passion he denied himself.

If he was being completely honest with himself, Greg wished that there were someone amongst the others that he could talk to. He immediately ruled Nick out, not because he particularly disliked Nick, but because Nick's 'good ole boy' attitude made him cringe. For some reason, he thought wryly, the idea of having a heart-to-heart talk and yet not being able to look the other person in the eye didn't really appeal.

Sara was ruled out for reasons diametrically opposed to those that excluded Nick. Her propensity to pick everything to pieces in search of a logical explanation was the last thing Greg needed at this point in time. He wanted understanding, not an automated Myers-Briggs breakdown of potential, future actions based on a forensic typology of his character. Similar reasons ruled out Catherine. Despite her predilection for regarding the young lab-tech with a combination of amused condescension and respectful scepticism, Greg recognised that she was one sharp lady, and he really didn't want her crawling around in his psyche.

That left Warwick and Grissom.

Warwick, to Greg, was – to mangle the quote - a conundrum inside a paradox. At times, if Warwick had been any more laid back he would have been presumed dead; at other times it was as if a righteous fire had been lit under his butt. That was the problem, you never knew what reaction you were going to get. Admittedly, while Greg didn't want a 'yes-man' [or woman] to talk to, he did want a sympathetic audience. Warwick, being a talented pianist, could at least understand the importance of music, but whether he could see Greg in that light was something Greg wasn't prepared to chance. It was entirely possible, Greg thought, that he was doing his colleagues an injustice, but in his own mind he had suffered one too many 'crazy Greg' looks to feel secure in opening himself to potential ridicule.

So, by a process of completely subjective elimination, it was Grissom.

At the best of times Greg's relationship with Grissom was rocky. Greg felt that Grissom regarded him as little more than a semi-useful appliance, one that was extremely useful, but also needed to be closely watched for signs of potential implosion. Greg misunderstood and underestimated his boss. Grissom cared little for Greg's deviations from the norm, all that mattered to Grissom was getting the job done and done right. The truth of the matter was that Grissom regarded his lab tech's abilities as exceptional; he just had concerns over Greg's ability to concentrate closely on an assigned task when moments before he had been pogo-ing around the room with a latex glove on your head.

Of course that was the problem, Greg couldn't concentrate and he now understood why, his heart simply wasn't in it.

* * *

The next evening, Greg came in early.

He hadn't slept well.

He had spent the 'night' alternately pacing up and down the halls of his apartment complex arguing with the walls and tossing and turning in his bed over the decision he had – eventually - come to.

Sighing deeply, he approached Grissom's office, the ever-present classical music echoing down the hall preceding him to his destination.

Poking his head around the door he tapped quietly on the frame, "Grissom, can I have a word?"

Gil Grissom barely acknowledged the young lab tech's presence. "What is it Greg? I'm busy".

Greg almost gave up and ran at that point, but instead, he steadied himself and replied tightly; "Sorry Grissom, this is important"

With a quiet grunt of dissatisfaction, Grissom put down his pen, removed his glasses and regarded Greg with an air of resignation. "Alright, I'm listening".

"Do you mind turning down the Mahler? Much as I like the Symphony of the Thousand, I don't wish to compete with it".

Grissom automatically turned to his stereo to reduce the volume, before the content of what Greg said registered, "You know who Mahler is?"

"You seem surprised Grissom, am I not supposed to know?"

"No, not at all. I just hadn't thought that …well …."

"And that's the part of the problem Grissom, and that's why I came in early this evening; I have something to tell you. I'm resigning.


	2. 

_Well, here we go, chapter 2, my first ever update to an existing story (__**fear). **__Thanks to those who reviewed, your words were much appreciated. _

_I am sorta happy with it I think but some of this chapter feels really clumsy….feh_

_Please feel free to savage this chapter if you feel the need, I'm still learning and all criticism is good criticism – hell, if it makes you happy say nice things too._

_Still PG – unless you consider character assassination_

_Still disclaiming ownership but I'm working on a coup…._

_**27/10/2011: This continues the re-editing of the story.**  
_

* * *

"You're … resigning?" The word seemed strange, malformed in Grissom's mouth; "Can I ask why?"

"You can ask, but it's really none of your business. Let's just accept that I've resigned going and leave it at that. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have things to do". Without a backward look Greg turned on his heel and headed back to his lab.

Grissom watched his lab tech's retreating back, unable to understand precisely what had just happened. It was rare for the shift- head to be at a loss for words and rarer still for his internal monologue to come to an abrupt, and analogy-free, halt; now, to all intents and purposes, Grissom bore a striking resemblance to a stranded goldfish. His expression was still glazed when Catherine wandered past his office twenty minutes later.

"Grissom? ... Grissom? ... Earth to Grissom ... Hello?" Receiving no response, Catherine walked into Gil's office muttering under her breath; "Mission control, we have a problem.

"Hey, Grissom, snap out of it"

"Huh? ... Wha…? Oh, Catherine, what do you want?"

"Nothing, I was just passing, saw your zombie impression and wondered what was up".

"Greg's resigned".

"Resigned? How do you mean?"

"Do you see any chess pieces?" He asked, gesturing at his desk, which was demonstrably lacking in a chess board. "He's quit ... Is leaving the job ...and, no doubt, the building. He. Is. Going. Away…." In his agitation, Grissom spoke slowly, as if explaining things to a particularly deficient student.

Catherine, for her part, was not impressed with the distinct lack of useful information originating from the direction of her boss. "Thank you for the definition Grissom; let's try that again. Did he say why he was leaving?"

Grissom had the grace to look abashed; "Something to do with Mahler, I think".

"Mahler?"

"Yup".

"And a dead, nineteenth-century composer fits into this how?"

Grissom's silence was all the reply Catherine needed. "Sometimes Grissom you have all the empathy of a rock. If Greg had come in here with a carapace, and two additional limbs, you probably would have paid him more attention. Let's get the others in here and see if we can sort this out".

Taking his pained silence for acquiescence, Catherine strode purposely out of the office calling back over her shoulder "See you in ten minutes".

She passed Greg's lab on her way to the staff room; he seemed quieter than usual which, when considering that he wasn't dancing around the room with a glove on his head, was hardly surprising. Catherine couldn't have told anyone why, but Greg seemed more composed, almost at peace, as if the peripatetic air that constantly surrounded him had stilled. Obviously, something had changed, but this consideration was shunted to the side of her mind to be addressed once she had gathered her colleagues.

Sweeping into the staff room Catherine encountered Warwick and Nick involved in a battle to the death with the evening paper's crossword. As was usual with the two men everything was cause for competition: answers, speed of response, even spelling, all was fair game in the continual battle between the two to prove who was better. Sara Sidle sat on the counter of the kitchenette, coffee in hand, watching the pair. Arching an immaculately manicured eyebrow at Catherine, she grinned, "They'll be racing cockroaches in the halls, with Grissom, next."

Without raising his head from the ongoing battle, Warwick murmured, "Never," while Nick merely shook his head in bemused negation. Glancing up he saw the slight tightening along Catherine's jaw that usually indicated something was on her mind.

"What's up, Willows?"

"Staff meeting in Grissom's office."

"When?" sighed Warwick, "Who screwed up this time?"

"Now ... No-one ... and did anyone tell you you're a fatalist, Warwick?"

Warwick's groping attempt at a witty retort was subverted when Sara told him not to bother; Catherine had already gone.

"Guess now really means now; any idea what's going on?" Shrugging, at the negative responses from his colleagues, Warwick unwound himself from the couch and, followed by Sara and Nick, headed for Grissom's office.

When the three CSIs – like an hastily arranged posse - arrived at the door to Grissom's office it was very obvious that Catherine and Grissom had been waiting for them; this was a well-known harbinger of impending doom amongst the CSI team and they were put immediately on edge.

At the best of times Grissom's patience was marginal, held in check solely by the knowledge that the accumulated bad karma he'd gather from taking it out on his people would be returned in kind - probably by a visit from his nemesis, the head of the day shift; his agitation, however, was obvious.

Catherine, who was perched on the edge of Grissom's desk, appeared more composed; although it was obvious to those who knew at worked with her that something was clearly 'up'.

It was Warwick who broke the, increasingly uncomfortable, silence. "Okay, you two, what is it?"

Grissom started to respond when Sara interrupted, "Aren't we going to wait for Greg? I mean, he is kind of useful, and he knows his stuff … and …," she tailed off, abruptly, noticing the tense look that passed between Catherine and Grissom.

Pausing briefly for the inevitable interruption, which, for once, didn't occur, Grissom started again. "No, to answer your question, Sara, Greg's not coming, the reason - and that reason answers your 'what's up' Warwick - is because Greg's resigned …" Grissom made to continue but was overridden by several questions fired at him from different parts of the room.

"Resigned? Why?"

"Are you sure?"

"What did you say to him this time Grissom?"

Catherine's smirk at the last comment was quickly suppressed as she felt Grissom's eyes rest upon her. He looked hurt. She sometimes forgot that, despite appearances to the contrary, Grissom was not only human but also extremely humane. Admittedly, he had virtually no interpersonal skills, but that was due more his being completely oblivious rather than inherently callous. Deciding to rescue her friend, before he dug himself a hole the size of Texas, she pre-empted his response.

"We don't know why he's resigned. He didn't say, at least he didn't say anything to Grissom …." She paused to scowl at Nick, who'd muttered a quiet 'now there's a surprise,' before continuing. "So, the reason we're having this meeting is to decide what to do. Do we say anything to him? Obviously, none of you were aware of anything, unless he's said something in confidence". The unspoken question was met with silence and no small measure of guilty looks.

It was Sara who finally spoke, her voice subdued. "We all like Greg, I ... I … mean ... I like Greg, and I think Warwick and Nick do too, but it's not like we're close; close in a buddy-buddy sense, that is." Sara looked around rapidly, silently imploring Warwick and Nick to support what she, in her own special way, had said. "He does his work, we do ours, we have coffee occasionally, but it's not like we know him, right guys? … Erm … guys?"

Warwick raised a laconic eyebrow and smiled deprecatingly at Sara. "Sidle's right; inarticulate – and largely incoherent - but right. I guess Greg's always just been there; You know, there's the Mass Spec, the DNA analyser, Greg, the gas chromatograph …."

"Christ, Warwick, have you been taking sensitivity lessons from Grissom?" interjected Nick. Catherine winced.

"The simple answer Catherine, is that we really don't know Greg well enough to tell you if there's anything wrong or, for that matter, if anything's right. It's not that we don't like him, as Sara said, it's just that he doesn't really appear to be here; he's like a ghost at times. Don't misunderstand; he's an amazing tech … it's just … "

Catherine sighed, "It's alright, guys, we get the picture. You're not in trouble so don't start writing your eulogies for the guy; he's leaving, not dead.

"Do you want me to have a word with him Grissom?" she asked, turning he attention to the older man, "It's prying, I know, and way outside the normal standards of professional conduct, and," she conceded, "Greg is perfectly entitled to leave if he wants; but I get the feeling we're missing something here." (The fact that she hated a mystery, especially one occurring under her nose, was left unsaid).

Grissom shrugged; when it came to people he was lost. Catherine, taking his response as a 'do what you think best' response, assumed her best amateur detective demeanour and headed for the lab. She paused in Grissom's doorway, "You lot stay clear for a while, go play with a body or something; this is not going to be easy".


	3. 

_Back to life, back to reality,  
Back to life, back to reality  
Back to life, back to reality  
Back to the here and now  
Show me how you decide what you want from me  
Tell me maybe I could be there for you  
_**Soul II Soul – Back to Life**

**

* * *

**

A betting man, asked to lay odds on the ability of Catherine Willows trying to act innocent, or at best incurious, would have passed up the bet without hesitation. However, as Catherine had banished Warrick and Greg to the bowels of the building she gave herself a player's chance of talking to Greg without having to deal with the sound of dice being rolled down the corridor after her.

How the hell I did get myself into this, she thought to herself, mentally cursing Grissom. A continuation of this line of thought was curtailed by the omnipresent voice of her conscience, which gently reminded her that she had in fact volunteered and that blaming her friend and boss was somewhat unjust, probably therapeutic, but nonetheless, unjust.

Catherine composed herself, or at least attempted to appear innocuous. She felt a bit like a character out of that Sixties television programme Mission Impossible, where the ubiquitous voice of the unseen secretary challenged her to act completely out of character in order to achieve, well, the impossible. Not that Greg was impossible, it was just that he was far from stupid, and having her appear in his lab within the hour of his having resigned, would colour even the most oblivious person slightly suspicious.

Well, ok, it wasn't like she was going to strap him to the gas chromatograph and beat an answer out of him, well not unless he proved particularly intransigent, but she wasn't leaving the lab without an answer.

Unless of course he told her to go away that is.

Nearing the lab, Catherine could see no sign of Greg. That's strange, she thought, he seldom leaves his sanctuary when he's here. Moving closer she saw that Greg was indeed in the lab, but that he was on the horizontal rather than the customary vertical, not, she noted wryly, was there anything that could be called customary about Greg's usual behaviours.

Addressing the legs that were sticking out from under the desk, Catherine softly inquired "Greg?" When she received no response she raised her voice and was rewarded by solid thump and a stream of profanity. The legs slid out from under the desk followed by the body and unsurprisingly, the head of the lab tech.

"Catherine" came the somewhat groggy response, "what can I do for you?"

"Have you identified my blue mystery yet, I just thought I'd pop in and check", the excuse sounded vaguely plausible.

"Ummmm, sort of, I was just chasing it under the desk when you arrived"

"Do know what it is?"

"It came from that industrial chemist's, right?" receiving the redhead's nod of confirmation, Greg continued. "It seems to be some sort of synthesized polymer, copper, silicon, the usual suspects. However, the DNA analyser says it's got chains of various animal's DNA as well, anyway what it essentially comes down to is that your little blue ball is photo and audio-sensitive, kinda like silly putty on acid. Seems to be best friends with Newtown's third law, I turned on the stereo and the feedback nearly deafened me. I wouldn't recommend throwing it at anyone, the recoil would probably kill you". Pausing, Greg looked Catherine in the eye, "is that all?"

"Err… No".

"Surprise, Surprise – and what else can I help you with? … Like…oh,… let me see, … how about, why am I leaving?"

"You got me I guess". Well I knew he wasn't stupid Catherine thought; it would have been nice though. "So Greg, why ARE you leaving?"

"I don't really feel like telling you, it doesn't affect you and frankly it's none of your business", there was a dangerous glint in the tech's eye when he said this and Catherine briefly considered leaving things there, but discretion, having never been one of her strong points, was unceremoniously shoved aside as her curiosity stomped all over the proprieties common to polite society. Truth be told, she rationalised, as a scientist it was her job to get to the truth.

"Grissom was somewhat confused, he said your reason had something to do with Mahler"

Greg was unsure whether to laugh or cry at this comment, although his response was laced with irony, "Well it's nice to see he was paying attention; maybe if I had wings"

"If you had wings Greg, he'd stick a pin through you".

"Maybe so, but at least he'd pay me a bit of serious attention".

"Is that what this is about Greg, you feeling neglected?" Catherine tried, but failed, to keep a slightly patronising tone out of her voice".

"If I'd wanted your contempt Catherine, I'd have stayed around to work" was the acid response, "but anyway, to answer you question, it's not you guys it's me" Greg winced, "ugh, that sounds like I've refused a date with you all. No, the simple answer is that there are things that I want to do, and I don't want to do them here, and really, there is nothing holding me here".

The latter comment caught Catherine by surprise. She wasn't sure if the department had just been insulted or if Greg was truly that unhappy with his job, and if so, why?

Thinking back over the time she had been working for the LVPD all her memories of the job were happy ones – disregarding the blood, the bodies and the continual exposure to those aspects of human existence that made a strong argument for universal euthanasia.

She thought of her friends: especially Grissom, the things she had learnt, and perhaps more importantly, she thought of the life she escaped from. But giving thanks for what she had didn't allow her to understand Greg. Actually, she didn't think that even if she knew why Greg wanted to leave she'd understand him they were just too different.

If Catherine Willows had thought a little deeper and a little harder she would have realised that that was the problem right there, the assumption of difference and the assumption that she had nothing in common with the lab tech. Her origins hardly spoke of a life of ease and acceptance and that alone should have given her some understanding of the lab tech's sense of isolation. Had she thought back to her first days on the job when she knew no-one and transferred that feeling forward perhaps she would have generated a little empathy; instead she sat and she wondered and failed to understand, and that was the summation and the condemnation of the CSI unit in Greg's eyes, he was searching for not so much acceptance as peace, peace of mind and peace of heart, but his heart was not here.

"Has the interrogation finished yet Catherine?

"What does it really matter if I leave; it isn't like lab techs are an endangered species, unless – I hasten to add - the last graduating class from the university was wiped out in a freak accident, and that's what you're here to tell me.

"There are other things I want to do and what I do here can be done by someone else. So tell me Catherine, what is it you want?"

The harshness of his words didn't ring true, but the object of his ire failed to notice, instead she had recoiled slightly beaten back by the bitterness she thought she perceived.

"Grissom would think otherwise Greg, you know how highly he rates your work…you do know?"

"Yes Catherine, all the praise and compliments I get clearly demonstrate Grissom's regard for my work, but again, I am not leaving because of the job, or Grissom or for any other reason that concerns you. Sure, I don't feel I get the respect my work deserves but life is far too short to worry about it. And yes, if I was staying I might address it, but I am leaving for me, not because of something else, there's not a lot more I can say really"

Catherine was about to respond when Warrick stuck his head round the doorframe, "Sorry to interrupt guys, Cath, we've got a live one, well actually a dead one and we're up so …" and jerking his head for her to follow he turned and left.

Catherine shrugged, "OK Greg, this is your fairytale, I've gotta go, but think on this, who are you selling short here?" and with that she was gone.

The lab tech shrugged and if anyone were around to listen they would have heard him mutter something about an alien abduction being so much easier.


	4. 

Here we go, chapter four. This took a bit longer than I planned as I got lost in a haze of descriptive language and metaphor and I had to hack my way out.

This, in places, is probably one of the best things I've written – I thought that about parts of the last chapter but only one person reviewed it, so I am obviously delusional, hopefully someone [please anyone?] will review tis chapter and give me some feedback.

Anyway, I hope you the reader [whomever you are] enjoys this.

Apocalypse Now: The Enrolment

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More than any other time in history, mankind faces a crossroads.

One path leads to despair and utter hopelessness; the other, to total extinction. Let us pray we have the wisdom to choose correctly.

**Woody Allen**

Have you ever noticed how bright the sun is in the morning? 

Have you ever noticed the correlation between the brightness of the sun and the amount of alcohol you've consumed the night before.

Greg did, and at the ungodly hour of 7:30AM he really wished the sun came with a dimmer switch.

Coming home at 5:00AM probably hadn't helped, although at the time it seemed perfectly appropriate.

It had been a week since Greg had left the CSI lab and it had been a week where Greg exercised his democratic right to do absolutely nothing that could in any way be considered healthy, wholesome or beneficial to the biological unit commonly identified as his body; his spirit on the other hand was ecstatic. As is often the case, the bondage we hold ourselves in only becomes truly apparent when we are free of the fetters of its containment. It had taken Greg several years to understand that the chains that bind are forged in the fires of a person's fears and regrets and it is the fact that we hold onto these fears that stops us moving on.

But now, he was free, even if the sun was too bright.

Another hour spent tossing, turning and futilely trying to convince himself that holding the pillow over his eyes would induce sleep came to nought and thus, heaving himself out of bed, Greg headed, zombie-like, towards his potential salvation, the eternally brewing pot of coffee on the stovetop. Coffee was a habit that Greg had acquired working at the lab and despite numerous attempts to wean himself from the vicious, viscous black substance he found himself falling ever deeper into its caffeinated embrace.

Settling himself in the armchair beside the window Greg thought about the day ahead and the process of enrolling at the university. His chat with the admissions advisor the week previous had been positive, and had become even more so as she read the glowing transcripts from his previous university study. Greg's thoughts were interrupted by an undignified pile of grey fur that was indignantly yowling about the distinct lack of anything resembling food in her bowl. Reproachful yellow eyes regarded her owner with an implied directive for Greg to shift butt.  

Groaning the groan of the oppressed, Greg wearily lifted himself from the chair and proceeded to the refrigerator his furred companion in hot pursuit. To his dismay all that remained, and was passing edible – or indeed recognisable as food - was the fillet mignon he was saving for his dinner. Resigned to the inevitable he diced the meat and presented it to his cat, "You'd better appreciate that hairball", the hairball in questioned indicated it's undying devotion to Greg by promptly ignoring him and burying its face in the food.

Refilling his coffee, Greg returned to the chair. His thoughts drifted aimlessly finally, and somewhat inevitably, settling on his last day at the lab. He had managed to scuttle any hint or suggestion of a farewell party but that hadn't stopped the CSI's, singly and in pairs, dropping in for final goodbyes and assorted snippets of wisdom and advice, some of which was even useful. 

It was Warrick, long-limbed and laconic, who had started the procession; effortlessly pouring himself into the lab he regarded Greg with the practised cynicism of those who've actually had the experiences to back up what they think they know.

"Time to go huh?"

Greg checked the clock on his PC, "Not for another four hours and twelve minutes; not, I hasten to add, that I'm counting".

Easing himself onto the visitor's stool, the tall man immediately went straight to the heart of the matter  "So you actually going to say what you're doing, or does the shroud of eternal secrecy follow you out the door? I mean, what's the big hush Greg? It's not like you're going to pursue a life of crime is it?"

"Stop fishing Warrick. As I said to Catherine and as I'll say to you, and probably the others: I'm going, that's it, sayonara. It's not personal".

Warrick shrugged, "Whatever, merely asking. Anyway, gotta split, looking at the remains of a jumper off the Hyatt, who, if reports are true, is Bob Beamon's long lost twin", offering Greg his hand Warrick left with a "take care and stay out of trouble".  

The sound of the 9AM news on the radio brought Greg back to the present. Remembering that enrolment started at 10, and that he had to get to the other side of town, the coffee cup was ditched as Greg hurriedly washed, dressed, combed and avoided tripping over the cat on his way out the door. His departure was short-lived as he soon returned to acquire the omnipresent, but ever required, raft of papers seemingly required to do just about anything in the modern age.

This time he failed to dodge the cat on the way out the door.

The quickest way to get to the University was to actually drive in opposite direction, leave Las Vegas and circle back on the interstate; it added nearly 10 miles to the total distance but usually saved half an hour's worth of traffic lights, drivers with non-functioning indicators and various other luminaries who drove with their faith placed in the Force instead of the road code.

And then, there were the tourists.

Turning on the radio to pass the time, Greg was soon irritated by the incessant blathering of the DJ; it was one reason he had brought his own music in to the lab, it saved him being constantly harassed by the terminally chirpy hosts who proclaimed that every day was a great day in the greatest city in the world. He'd had his music especially loud on his final night subconsciously hoping that the additional noise would keep away assorted well-wishers. It didn't work of course and about an hour into the shift Sara Sidle stomped into the lab with ever-present grace and charm cascading behind her in a miasma of tactless assurance.

"So this is it then?" 

So much for 'hi Greg', he thought.

"God you're selfish. Who the hell do you think you are up and leaving?"

"Well thanks for the kind words Sara. I thought you'd learned your lesson about jumping to conclusions"

"What do you mean Greg?" the words were razor edged.

"Remember Warrick, and the casino tape? Why do you assume that my reasons for leaving are selfish? I wasn't aware that I had to clear my actions with you first. I've had enough problems with Grissom being clueless thanks; if you're going to be an ant, find another picnic".

Immediately aggravated at this reminder of her past presumption, Sara also had no wish to go to war with Greg, attempting to mollify the agitated lab tech, Sara raised her hand in apology, "Look, Greg, it's not like decent lab techs grow on trees, it's a waste you're going, we need you here".

"And would you have me stay if I was truly unhappy?"

"Well…no" was the grudging response "but…but…that's not the…"

"The point, Sara? The point is that I'm leaving. Sure, it's for my own selfish reasons, but they are still …look dammit, I'm sick of saying this, I'm leaving, can't you people just accept that? Maybe if I hung a sign outside the door or something"

Sara looked defeated, more she looked like she didn't understand - and she hated that feeling more than anything; giving Greg a half-hearted wave she left.

Greg's gaze followed her out the door; sometimes you just couldn't win he thought. He always seemed too be at odds with Sara, and it wasn't for lack of trying, after all, she was a major hottie, and he had a pulse. He wasn't sure what it was, but something in their personalities just clashed, maybe it was because she seemed to have been cloned from Grissom, at least in her attitude to what constituted 'professional'.

The screeching of brakes and the angry honking of a car horn abruptly snatched Greg back to the present. A young woman with an expression light years beyond irate slammed her car door and stalked over to a very confused looking Greg. "What's your fucking problem moron, are your indicators just painted on or something…"

The content of the woman's words were lost on Greg, for if Sara was a hottie then this woman was a walking furnace. Greg tried to concentrate, he really did, but he was distracted by the gymnastic antics of her full breasts beneath her thin cotton top as she gesticulated wildly at him. Greg's subconscious surfaced briefly in a desperate attempt to treat the situation with a degree of solemnity only to have the woman shout "…and stop staring at my fucking tits you pervert", before she walked back to her car and departed with the acrid smell of burnt rubber in her wake. Greg would have denied the woman's accusation about being a pervert but he was too busy checking out her butt as she returned to her car; and then she was gone.

Mentally castigating himself for not paying attention to the road, he couldn't help but grin, yes indeed, it was good to be back at college.

Finding a park at the university wasn't as much of a problem as Greg had anticipated, probably because the architect who had designed the facility had appeared to have been blessed with a degree of common sense, or at least a basic understanding of logistics, and had planned for a continual growth in student numbers and by extension cars.  Pulling to a graceful stop underneath a spreading chestnut tree, Greg got out and tried to orient himself. First stop was the administration building and there right beside the tree was a sign clearly emblazoned with 'Administration Building', which directed Greg to take the first path on his left. Grateful at not having to wander around like a child lost at the mall, Greg headed towards the Administration Building.

Although it had been nearly six years since Greg had last been at university some things never changed. Groups of teenagers were scattered across the lawns as if a giant hand had had randomly thrown them about like driftwood on a forgotten beach. Errant Frisbees were pursued with vigour by youth even more wayward and interspersing the gentle sounds of fragmented conversations were the whispers of music from a multitude of radios, each assaulting the airwaves with its own tribute to the latest in pop fabrication; the one exception being the lonely voice of Vaughan-Williams' 'A Lark Ascending', which defined itself in the creative vacuum left by its contemporary siblings.

The same architect who had laid out the campus had obviously not designed the Administration Building; it was a rambling affair, a Daliesque nightmare combining the worst elements of a French Gothic cathedral, a geodesic monstrosity that would have terrified Buckminster Fuller and completed in a colour scheme that made the worst acid flashback appear almost tranquil. Only the most generous critique would have called it interesting, those less inclined to understatement simply avoided looking at it, Greg being neither, determined to get in and out as quickly as possible.    

The woman at the front desk appeared to have been having a bad for the past ten years and her defeated posture was a silent, yet eloquent testimony to dealing with students who had inevitably forgotten to bring anything even slightly connected with the basics of enrolment. Her world-weariness reminded Greg of having to bring Grissom bad news. 

It wasn't that it was anyone's fault as it wasn't like you could make DNA match solely because you wanted it to, but Grissom, seated behind his desk, took each failure as something akin to your having run over his dog. To be fair to his former boss, Grissom always gave recognition when it was due even if such recognition amounted to little more than a semi-coherent mumble. On Greg's final night, however, it had been different, Grissom, while hardly effusive, had strung together several sentences which not only appeared to indicate approval of Greg's abilities as a lab tech but, if the listener: [a] knew Grissom and [b] was feeling generous, could be translated as wishing Greg well.

Greg had been almost rendered speechless but had settled for turning bright red and mumbling something inarticulate about thank you before he fled through the doors of the building. 

If he had looked back he would have seen a faint, wry smile flicker briefly over Grissom's face, before the chief CSI turned and slowly walked back to his office.

Greg snapped back to reality as he realised the woman behind the desk was talking to him. Realising that she was asking for his completed enrolment form and proof of identity he handed her the relevant envelope and quietly waited while she checked his papers over. Taking the distinct lack of hissing and snarling as a positive sign, Greg tentatively inquired if everything was in order. Regarding the young man with eyes made sightless through years of dealing with the university bureaucracy, something akin to a personality briefly surfaced in the woman. Gifting Greg with a raised eyebrow and a quirk of the lips she murmured something about him being the first to get it right today before, in a clearer voice, she directed him to the Graduate Admissions office to complete his enrolment.

As you would expect, the Graduate Admissions office was, according to the woman at the main admissions desk, on the other side of the campus, and Greg, after pausing at a nearby vendor's for something, which proclaimed itself to be but clearly wasn't coffee, headed towards his destination; or at least what he thought was he destination as soon found that the ubiquitous 'other side of the campus' bore a passing resemblance to the end of the eponymous rainbow. 

While the layout of the campus was obviously well planned the same could not be said of appropriately placed signage. After finding the main admissions building so easily by, logically enough, following a sign, Greg had been lured into a false sense of security, he was now coming to the somewhat inevitable conclusion that he had previously found the only sign on campus that actually pointed anywhere; any time soon, he thought, I'll be passed by a white rabbit muttering something about being late.

Swallowing his pride, Greg decided to ask for directions, but the lawn previously filled with students was now deserted. Giving up, he resigned himself to returning to the Administration Building to ask for a fresh set of directions, the irony of looking for a new direction was not lost on him and he laughed inwardly. His amusement was abruptly curtailed when, with a bump, he walked into someone. Mentally berating himself for daydreaming he started to apologise when a very familiar voice interrupted him.

"Can't drive a fucking car and you obviously can't walk in a straight line either, are you fucking retarded?"  Oh joy, Greg thought, the psychotic bitch from this morning. Making sure his eyes looked everywhere except at her chest, he attempted to steer a tricky course between ingratiation and abuse.

"Err no, actually I'm lost".

"I'm not surprised, I doubt you could find you arse with both hands, a map and a flashlight".

"I'll settle for the Graduate Admissions Office. I'll try finding my arse later if it will make you happy".

"No, that's fine", was the hasty response. Looking at Greg more closely the flame haired virago made a conscious effort to modify her manner. "Well I guess you can't be a complete write-off if you're looking for the graduate office, although I'd suggest you give up driving and get a guide dog. Now, you see that spire over there?" She inquired, pointing in a direction about 90 degrees left of where Greg thought he should have been going. "Walk straight towards that, then look for an old brick building about a hundred metres from that".

"Umm, just in case, precisely HOW MANY brick buildings are a hundred metres from the spire, considering the effort that's gone into signposting this place I don't want to take my chances".

Grinning almost sympathetically - the almost was somewhat undermined by the feral gleam that lit her eyes – the woman shrugged, "Only the one. You're just lucky you didn't have to find the accommodation services building; they probably would have had to send out a search party for you. Anyway, good luck, and try not to walk into anyone else", and with that she was gone.   

Assuming that Catherine hadn't been cloned, Greg decided that was pretty much what she must have been like when she was younger, if not in look, then definitely in attitude. Come to think of it, he mused, the attitude's identical; it's definitely a clone. Resuming his quest, he followed the directions given to him by the clone and this time reached his destination with relative ease; there was even a sigh affixed to the exterior of the building that stated: Graduate Admissions, Greg suspected a trap but went in anyway.

The Graduate Admissions building bespoke style and refinement – which essentially meant it wasn't the Hawaiian shirt designer's nightmare the main admissions building was. Unlike the other building, there was no main counter instead individual desks were strategically positioned about the room and behind each of them was a fresh-faced smiling person who emanated an air of helpfulness. Having worked inside the bureaucracy of the police department for several years such an environment made Greg extremely suspicious. Tentatively approaching the desk of one of the fresh-faced, smiling beings the former lab tech was the living incarnation of caution, "Excuse me", he asked "The lady over at the Administration Building said I needed to come here to complete my enrolment, is that correct?"

The smiling being straightened in its chair, gifted Greg with a welcoming gesture and asked him to sit down. "Did you bring your enrolment papers Mr…Sanders?" it said, reading Greg's name from the proffered envelope before grasping the weakly offered papers. "Take a seat, and we'll have a look and see what the system tells us". 

The omnipresent smile disappeared from the face of the administration being as it focused its attention on the data spewing forth from its computer. Intermittent grimaces, frowns and tics indicated that something was indeed happening but precisely what was unclear. After several minutes Greg began to grow worried, had he forgotten something? He was sure his fees were paid. He'd even talked to the Dean of the Music Department to ensure his choice of courses met the department's criteria for post-graduate study. Just as his worries began to crescendo the administration being returned to the current space/time continuum, "Everything appears to be in order Mr Sanders. I'll just get you to sign, this, this, this and this. Oh, and this one twice; here and here.

Greg, not wishing to chance his luck, just signed where he was told and fled the area. He really hoped that his first day, the following Monday would be less confusing.    


	5. 

Ha!!! Chapter 5 that I've progressed this far is right up there with the seven wonders of the ancient world. You do realise that I am now going to have to come up with a plot, which is most unfair. Thanks to all those who have reviewed, remember more is good – especially constructive criticism. 

**If you leave me, can I come too?**

Give me a child at seven and I will show you the man

Attributed to the Jesuits 

Greg remembered his schooling vividly; from the merciless terror campaigns of the nuns at his parochial school to the bored indifference of professors who turned up because they had to justify the University paying them a salary.

He thought of Sister Torquemada, lean to the point of emaciation who hovered over her classes like an angry buzzard; the young Greg had no idea why she was so angry but if she was Christ's bride then he felt sorry for Christ. He also felt sorry for himself, but _HE_ wasn't married to her.

Sister Torquemada wielded her ruler like an executioner's axe, the only thing stopping her from inflicting more serious injuries upon her students being the layout of the classroom, which prevented her from taking a run up. Her standards of perfection defied belief - they defied logic too but the students were too scared of her to bring that up. Woe betide the student that failed to cross their I's and dot their T's; lateness was ranked with the Seven Deadly Sins and disrespect earned you your own private crucifixion. For some reason, she held Greg in the same regard that the Philistines held the Israelites, and his mere presence in her class was enough to initiate an involuntary clutching motion in the old woman's hands. Greg remembered the day she gave him a detention for holding his pen at an angle she didn't like, that he hadn't opened his pencil case was irrelevant, his pen was at the wrong angle and he would be punished.

She was a malicious, vindictive old bat but at least she prepared Greg for dealing with Eckli.

Not all the penguins were homicidal sadists with unresolved issues; dear old Sister Amnesia was a particular favourite. Sister Amnesia, who was about a hundred and ninety, taught the new entrants. Every morning she stood at the door to her classroom endeavouring to remember who she was and why she was there, her eyes bright and frighteningly vacant; rumour had it that she was the Catholic Church's first attempt at cryogenesis and that she went into storage at the end of each semester. The little kids loved her because she loved them. Class was an extended period of hugs and stories; Sister Amnesia made the kids feel special and out of gratitude the kids stopped her falling out the window or drowning in the classroom fish tank.

Somewhat ironically, however, it was Sister Torquemada who prepared Greg for higher education and in the final analysis she was infinitely preferable to some of his university professors who appeared to believe that the undergraduate lifeform was only slightly higher on the evolutionary scale than the flatworm. At least Sister Torquemada loathed Greg's very existence, for some professors Greg's existence completely failed to register. He never knew what caused professors to be so indifferent, maybe it was oxygen deprivation resulting from their lofty ivory-towered status, but on occasion he had felt like suggesting to Grissom that he should collect specimens. 

Six years later he was back, not entirely sure why, but back nonetheless, knocking at the doors of knowledge and enrichment; or at least that was what he was fervently telling himself as he stood outside the entrance to the music department desperately trying to calm the furious palpitations of his heart as it fought desperately to escape. 

I want to be here, he reminded himself; I chose to come back  

'Sure you did' snapped his subconscious 'I've seen zombies with better impulse control'

I could have stayed at the lab it was a good job. I did good work.

'And basked in the warmth of your colleagues regard no less'

Greg mentally kicked his subconscious back under its rock, put on his best 'face of determination' and entered the building.

The first thing he noticed was the music, and while ignoring his subconscious' sardonic remark asking if he was expecting an autopsy, he let the calming, sepulchral tones of Albinoni's Adagio in G Minor seduce his nervous tension. As appeared to be customary, there, in the middle of the lobby, was the generic information/ administration desk, behind the desk, however, was a creature far from the beatific drones from the Graduate Admissions Office.  

"I hope you didn't drive over here".

Yes indeed, the gods were truly against him.

"Please, don't tell me you work here".

"What would you like me to tell you? I am sure I can make something up that you can handle".

"Are you always this pleasant, or do they leave you at reception to terrify the freshmen?"

"Only on alternate Mondays. Actually, I'm a student, this just pays the bills when I'm not in class".

"What are you studying? Other than music I hasten to add". The foremost thing running through the former lag tech's mind being, 'please not composition, please not composition, please not compo…'

"Compostion".

Sighing deeply, Greg rolled his eyes. "Of course you are, and I expect the fates are pissing themselves at this very moment".

"You too huh? Well, I hope you're a better at composition than you are at driving".

"Can we stop with the driving jokes, it's not like I ran over your mother, I'm about twenty years too late for that to have a positive outcome. Let's start again. OK? I'm Greg Sanders". 

The woman appeared uncertain for a moment, uncertain that is whether to accept Greg's proffered hand, or to get up and slug him for the comment about her mother; in the end good manners won out and she grudgingly accepted the hand, "Hi Greg, I'm Rilie Andrews".

The formal introduction was immediately followed by a painful silence as the two desperately sought a topic of conversation based on something other than insults, retorts and abuse. There was, as a last resort, the weather, but talking about the weather was usually reserved for that annoying person you'd just met at a party whom you really wish your 'friend' hadn't introduced you to. Then Greg had an idea, an idea so obvious that he was surprised he hadn't thought of it earlier. 

Greg's subconscious, never one to ignore an opportunity, reminded Greg that he was being a prat earlier. 

Ruthlessly beating his over-opinionated sub-conscious into submission, Greg voiced his genius epiphany, "You've been a student here a while, right Rilie?"

"Yeah, why?"

"Well you'd know the staff, and more importantly what I can expect, it's been a while since I've studied professionally"; the last was said with a wry smile.

Rilie paused in thought for a moment. "Well OK, but if anyone asks, you didn't get this from me", Getting a confirming nod from Greg, she continued. "The head of department is Dr. Doppler. You would have spoken to him on the phone or something – all the post-grads have to. Really nice guy, completely incomprehensible, but really nice; he's some sort of world leader in experimental electronic music. You'll just have to smile and nod like the rest of us when he starts talking about it, just sounds like bleeps and feedback to me, but the electronic crowd get a hard-on for it, so I just smile politely"

"I bet that's a mission for you, smiling politely I mean…"

"Do you want me to go on? Or do you want to crash and burn on your first day?" this was said with a evil grin and in response Greg held up his hands in mock supplication.

"Ok, where was I? 'Cos you're doing composition you'll get stuck with Dr. Mueller; affectionately known 'round here as the Bride of Frankenstein. You'll find the more talented you are the more she'll hate you. Don't misunderstand, she's a really good teacher, but her compositions are unimaginative and worse, she knows it, so for relaxation she takes it out on those of us with talent; just keep your head down and you'll be fine.

"You'll also have to do a survey course this semester".

"You're joking", replied Greg. "We were buried in survey courses at undergrad level, what's the point".

"There isn't a point, that's why it's compulsory; you know, university logic. Fortunately, Doc Hiller who takes it knows the course is a crock, so he goes easy on us in terms of content; so none of that crap about the inside of Handel's bassoon. Last year one of the finals exam questions asked whether Britney's tits were fake and if that affected her ability to sing". 

Seeing Greg's look of disbelief, Rilie grinned, "No, seriously, it was. Look, don't sweat it too much, last year we spent most of our time at the local café arguing about why alternative music was dead. Actually, Doc Hiller ended up giving us a fifteen percent assessment based on our arguments. He does tend to mark hard, but is more interested in your arguments that anything else, just go toe-to-toe with him and you'll be fine".

Greg grinned, "He sounds like my old boss, I sometimes think Grissom used to disagree with people just to make them think about what they were doing".

"So what did you used to do?"

"I was a forensic chemist. Well, my degree was chemistry and I ended up working in the lab for the Las Vegas Police Department. It was a good job, the hours sucked, but it could have been worse".

"So, if it was such a good job why did you quit, and if you're a chemist what are you doing in the music department?"

"Just had enough of the lab, time to move on and all that blah blah blah". The previous discomfort Greg had experienced in with the line of inquiry carried over from the inquisition he had experienced at the lab and moved quickly on to the second part of the question. "As for the musician in a lab coat thing, I did a double degree in music and chem. I was going to do my post-graduate study in music when the job at the lab came up and I needed the money more than the extra letters after my name…so I took the job".  

He didn't mention that he'd moved to Las Vegas from another state, or any of the real reasons why he had given up music. Fortunately, Rilie did seem to notice and Greg turned the focus back on her.   

"Did you do your undergraduate study here, you seem to know the place pretty well". 

"Nah. This is my second year in the post-grad programme; I spent most of last year getting lost. I only know the east and central sides of Vegas I haven't had any reason to venture out west; the strip's scary enough, god alone knows what sort of life forms lurk out west".

"Like me for example?"

"Now that you mention it….".

"Gee thanks, and I was just starting to think you were human. Look, I've gotta get to my first class with Dr Mueller, from your description I don't want to be late and dazzle her with my brilliance all on the first day", Rilie rolled her eyes, "I'll see you around perhaps".

With that said, Greg took off down the corridor. Rilie didn't move, an expectant look on her face. Precisely thirty seconds later, Greg came charging back towards her; saying nothing, Rilie pointed in the opposite direction to which Greg had been originally travelling and deftly stepped out of his way as he hurtled past, an echoing 'thank you' in his wake. Shaking her head sadly, she murmured to herself that it was indeed going to be an interesting year. 

******************************

Back at the CSI lab [the night before]

******************************

It was twenty minutes before shift started when Sara Sidle wandered in. Nodding absent-mindedly to the night-shift receptionist she headed towards the staff room in search of the ubiquitous sludge they generously called coffee. Damn Greg, she muttered, he could have at least had the decency to leave us his stash.

The halls were quiet, quieter than usual for this time; normally there was the intermingling between the day shift heading for the hills and the night shift crawling in with all the enthusiasm of an impending tooth extraction, the sole exception being   the chance to view another episode in the ongoing drama of Grissom v. Eckli. Tonight, however, everything was relatively quiet, the dayshift having taken the opportunity to slip out early as Ecklie was off kissing the butt of the local high flying political candidate; he, unlike everybody else in the CSI building, didn't seem to realise that his complete lack of personality couldn't be ameliorated through excess saliva production.

Nearing the break room Sara could hear Warrick and Nick engaging in their favourite, ongoing activity, wagering.  

"C'mon Nick, one knee or two?"

"Well I reckon two. Where do you stand on the pleading?"

"Well, if he's gonna do both knees I reckon there's a pretty good chance of pleading".

At that point Sara walked in, "Hi guys, who's pleading and why?"

Both men grinned. Nick, looked at Warrick who shrugged and Nick, taking his cue, choked out a "Grissom" before dissolving into silent laughter.

"And why would Grissom be begging, and to whom would he be going begging to? Not Ecklie, surely?" Receiving no easily decipherable response, Sara began to get tetchy, "C'mon guys, what's the joke? Stop holding out on me".

"OK, OK", laughed Warrick, "The answer to your question is Greg". Taking Sara's puzzlement as a prompt, Warrick continued, "Jackson resigned this morning".

Sara winced. "That's the third in three weeks".

"The third what?" asked Catherine, walking in on the end of the conversation.

"Lab Tech" supplied Warrick, for her benefit, "Jackson resigned this morning".

Catherine grimaced.

"What's he doing to them?" moaned Nick. "Christ Cath, can't you put a leash on him, one of us is going to end up in the lab if we don't stop leaking lab techs; it's not like they wander around loose on the Strip or something". 

"Greg, come back, all is forgiven"

"Can I get an Amen Brothers and Sisters?"

Stuck somewhere between a glare and a giggle, Catherine made hushing motions at Sara and Warrick, "ssshhhh, Grissom's just down the hall".

Fortunately, by the time Grissom arrived ten minutes later, the CSI's had managed to restore a degree of dignity to their proceedings. Grissom, however, was obviously not a happy man.

"What's on the bill tonight, Grissom?" asked Nick.

"Just the one tonight so far, but we're all on it. Our local serial killer has made another starring appearance, so get your things, we're out in fifteen minutes".


	6. Something Wicked This Way Comes

HA!! Chapter 6.I think. I sweated blood over this - why do stories have to be consistent: stupid concept.  
  
Mainly story building this chapter, tho Greg pops up at the end, more of him next chapter, Gawd Bless 'Im.  
  
Please review lots - please tell me if you think it makes sense etc, suggestions, criticisms welcome.  
  
I'd also like to take this opportunity to apologise to William Shakespeare and science in general for this chapter.  
  
  
  
Something Wicked This Way Comes  
  
  
  
He hoped and prayed that there wasn't an afterlife. Then he realized there was a contradiction involved here and merely hoped that there wasn't an afterlife.  
  
Douglas Adams  
  
  
  
I don't know if God exists, but it would be better for His reputation if He didn't.  
  
Jules Renard  
  
  
  
Warrick Brown hated crime scenes. Blood he could handle. He had, over time, inured himself to the pain and suffering. But he could never, in all his time on the job and in all the time to come, condition himself to accept the stupidity and barbarity inherent in the purported concept of humanity. He had also long given up on the concept of an eternal soul, much to his Grandmother's dismay, "Warrick", she'd say, "You have to have faith, without faith we are nothing". Warrick would shrug, mumble something about how he'd try and then beat a hasty retreat, his Grandmother's dismay the one thing he never wanted to face.  
  
Then again, his Grandmother never had to face anything like this.  
  
The CSI's had pulled up about fifteen minutes previously and that fifteen minutes had been all it had taken to shake Warrick to the core and to also confirm that Las Vegas' least favourite psycho had resurfaced with the style that could truly be called their own. The other CSI's mirrored Warrick's inner turmoil, Nick was currently experimenting with new shades of green, while Sara had immediately turned on her heel with a promise to be 'back in a minute'.  
  
Even Grissom was disturbed; if possible he became even more intent, more studious and most unnervingly even quieter than usual; the usual low- pitched monologue of instructions, observations and redundant warnings were absent as Grissom stared at the work of the person who had, over the last four years, become his nemesis.  
  
Death was not a stranger to Grissom, in fact, in the deepest recesses of his consciousness he considered death a friend. Death told him things; he learned from death. If Grissom had to personify death, he would have imagined death as the character that popped up in the Terry Pratchett books from time to time, not of course, that he ever would have admitted to having read anything quite so frivolous.  
  
In Grissom's mind death also held a dignity, almost as if the final gift of the departing soul was to grant the body some surcease, a last vestige of goodwill and respect for housing it. Even those who'd died in the most horrific and tragic circumstances appeared to Grissom to have found some small measure of peace, that in the knowledge that their pain was over they could truly let go; this killer didn't even leave them that. That he, for all concerned from CSI to FBI profilers believed this 'person' was a male, delighted in the agonies of his victims was apparent, but he went further, degrading them after death so that his mark was upon them and that even in death they were his.  
  
The first death had been a young woman, mid-twenties: professional. The killer had come upon her in her apartment and there, he had preyed upon her and finished her. She had been crucified, nailed to the wall, her throat slashed wide. The blood had cascaded from her and pooled beneath her; it was the blood that eventually seeped through the floor of her apartment into the apartment below that had prompted the call to the police. That she was crucified was not enough, gouged into her stomach was what appeared to be a code: KR3/V-III. It was only months later that the code was identified and by then two more were dead; each was killed in a similar fashion, each left with their own unique code.  
  
It had been Doc. Robbins who'd eventually solved the puzzle. A keen amateur dramatist, he and his wife were members of a Shakespearean theatre group, one night during a read-through of King Richard III, the doctor had had an epiphany, a blinding moment of intuitive clarity, flicking through the play he came to Act 5 Scene III, and there it was: 'Conscience is but a word that cowards use, devised at first to keep the strong in awe'. The investigative team, immediately informed, found that the other codes corresponded to more of Shakespeare's plays, Grissom, when informed, merely grunted something about 'everybody's a critic' before returning to his office.  
  
The killings had tailed off the following year and it was assumed - or more probably hoped - by some that the person responsible had either been locked up for another, lesser, crime, had died or had expunged the rage, which triggered his murderous fury in the first place. The profilers, however, said he'd be back, and the cynical agreed, arguing that it was more than likely that the killer had gone into hiatus in order to research more Shakespearean plays to source more quotes for his hobby.  
  
Two years ago he had returned with more fury, more hate, more despite; his lust for violence unquenched. In that one year, the pace of his killing increased and seven people were slaughtered - for there is no other word that can justly describe the ferocity of those attacks. The experts opined, that soon this creature would fall victim to his own madness and make a mistake; that the increased tempo of his murders spoke of an uncontrollable compulsion; soon, the experts said, soon. And the people waited.  
  
And there was nothing. No mistake. No evidence; only the mockery of his codes carved into the bodies of his victims.  
  
Again he was gone.  
  
Until now.  
  
Grissom cursed silently under his breathe.  
  
If there was one thing in this world Gil Grissom hated more than anything it was mockery; it didn't even have to be personal, merely the taunting assumption of a being holding something over another set his teeth on edge. Each time the killer returned, the miasma of despite and mockery that he carried was ever stronger, more redolent of his internal decay. 'Look on my works ye mighty and despair' was the ever-present subtext, taunting those who would catch him and subjugate him beneath the rules and restrictions of their pitiful existence. Grissom was interrupted from his silent meditation by the return of Sara to the crime scene; she was pale, and obviously angry with herself for her lack of professional detachment.  
  
"It all gets to us at some point Sara, it's more important that you learn to recognise it and deal with it".  
  
"I know Grissom, that doesn't mean I have to like it; does it?"  
  
"But at least you didn't throw up on the body", this from Nick who had come over to the pair, "Grissom, you'll want to see this, looks like our resident evil has finally slipped up".  
  
Walking towards the body; that of a young African-American woman, Nick pointed at a large, bloody thumbprint on the wall beside the body, "Maybe we can finally track this." his voice trailed off as the police officer who secured the crime scene came towards them with an apologetic look on his face; 'No. Please. Not the thumbprint" whispered Nick.  
  
"About that thumbprint" interrupted the officer, "One of my guys slipped in the blood and put his hand on the wall to steady himself. Sorry 'bout that"  
  
"Never mind Nick, let's just get to work. Can I assume it's the same M.O. as usual?"  
  
"Uh-huh. No forced entry, no visible sign of struggle, the victim's crucified, throat slashed etc, you know the drill. One thing tho, not an apartment complex like the others, maybe he's moved to the suburbs, got himself a wife, kids and a station wagon He's still so meticulous it's sickening; why couldn't we have an untidy psychopath, Grissom?"  
  
"Because then he'd be a psychotic. Did our friend leave his usual message?"  
  
"Yep, JC/I-II; I didn't bring my complete works with me, you?"  
  
"In the car. Sara, can you go get it?"  
  
Moments later she was back with the book. Quickly scanning the index for the letters JC, she soon had the answer. "It's from Julius Caesar guys, the actual quote is.there.here we go: Men at some time are masters of their fates: The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars, but in ourselves, that we are underlings".  
  
"Same pattern as the other quotes: all about control, whether mental, physical, internally or externally imposed; my guess is our guy has issues".  
  
Nick snorted, "One look at the body could have told you that Grissom, The thing is, however, we have no pattern, nothing to identify what precisely this guy has issues with. We thought we were onto a good thing with that second victim, you know, the lawyer, he used Henry VI pt 2 for that one, then obviously just to be difficult, he killed a school teacher, a prostitute and a tax consultant". He sighed in frustration "Why can't he just pick a profession and stay with it?"  
  
"You're not helping Nick. Where's Warrick?" "He's taking the outside, seeing if the killer left anything behind, you know, ticket's to the Globe, pictures of Sir Laurence Olivier, first folios, that sort of thing".  
  
"How do you feel about checking the body Nick?"  
  
"I'll go help Warrick".  
  
"Good idea".  
  
Grissom looked round to see who was left, other than himself that is. Sara was dusting for prints, everywhere except near the body and Catherine, his right hand, his second-in-command, was still to arrive. "Sara, you know where Cath is?"  
  
"Sorry Grissom no idea, she left with the rest of us. You check your cell?"  
  
"Hmm, no, I turned it off". Turning his phone on he found there was indeed a message from Catherine saying that her sitter had called while she was en- route and that she had to turn around and take Lynsey to the doctor and she'd get to the scene as soon as she could. Grissom shrugged, some things he couldn't control, however, he was at a loss to explain what had his team so spooked, they dealt with death and the consequences of human selfishness and stupidity every night, why on this occasion couldn't they be professional, detached like he was. Or, at the very least they could do a better job of pretending - just like he was.  
  
Sara appeared to sense Grissom's internal monologue from where she was dusting. "This guy is scary Grissom, there's nothing human in his actions except his disdain. It's like trying to catch a ghost, a ghost with an inferiority complex".  
  
Grissom motioned for her continue, his expression thoughtful.  
  
"Maybe it's because you're less human than the rest of us. It's like." seeing her superior's reaction to that statement caused Sara to wince, clearly chagrined, before rushing on, the words tumbling from her mouth as she sought to clarify her seeming harshness. "It's not that you're not human, Grissom, but you seem so detached from an emotional response. I mean, there's a disaster and your immediate reaction is 'hmmm, problem to solve, what happened here?'"  
  
"I'm a scientist, Sara, it's what I do".  
  
"But do you ever feel, Grissom? I mean really? This killer, he's sick beyond the wildest imaginings of the worst degenerate and you just sit there with a look of mild fascination; dammit Grissom, where's your revulsion, where's your empathy? The rest of us are sickened, scared, this isn't about science for us now, this is threatening our sense of identity".  
  
The outburst appeared to tire the young CSI, and her shoulders slumped in resignation, "Sorry, Grissom, you didn't."  
  
"Don't apologise, Sara. You, and the others no doubt, are right; this person, this - if you will - monster, doesn't exactly fill me with the joy of the scientific hunt, but I can't allow myself to let my feelings stop me doing my job. This isn't about morality, no matter how wrong it may be, nor is it about justice or stopping evil, we're not about judgements; not on work time. We're about putting things together so that they make sense. If anything, this killer offends me because I can't make sense of him, and without understanding we have nothing".  
  
At that moment Catherine arrived, followed by Warrick and Nick who had finished their sweep of the grounds.  
  
"Well, we got a boot print, quite a deep impression, but it doesn't look fresh, then again it hasn't rained for a few days so it could have been left from his casing the place earlier. We'll compare it with all the shoes in the house and see what we come up with".  
  
"Have the uniforms started questioning the neighbours yet?"  
  
"Tomorrow"  
  
"OK, get them to ask if they'd seen anyone new around the area in the past week, possibly a workman or something".  
  
"You're reaching Griss", Warrick remarked," I doubt these people could remember what they had for dinner a week ago let alone someone who may have been around here for a short time; and no-one's seen anything or anyone in the last ten homicides so we've got nothing for comparison ".  
  
Grissom sighed. "I know, but this boot print is the only thing we've got other than his love of Shakespeare and someone has got to see something eventually. This is the first time he's gone residential rather than killing in an apartment complex, people in the suburbs are more communal, less insular, they notice things; they could probably tell you who the next- door neighbour is having an affair with; we can, at the least, hope they saw something. Look, we found this incident days earlier than the other victims just because the neighbours hadn't seen her around and called it in."  
  
"What if it isn't the killer's boot print?"  
  
"Then at the very least we can exclude the person to whom the boot belongs; that's one less suspect ".  
  
"Out of over a million, Grissom? I hate your odds".  
  
"One less is one less" was the sententious reply, "Now let's process this mess and get out of here".  
  
With a will the CSI's set to, unified by a singular urge to get in, get the job done and get out with the uppermost thought in their minds being a long hot shower to wash their sullied souls clean. Blood washed clean; eventually, but this went far deeper because it made them question why they did what they did, why they opened themselves to this.  
  
The words of his Grandmother came back to Warrick, as he knelt on the floor amongst the blood, looking for fibres where past experience told him there would be nothing; "You have to have faith" the voice said, "Faith defines us; without faith, we are nothing. It doesn't have to be God; although my heart aches that you should turn your back on Him, but you have to feel somewhere in you that there is a point to what you're doing, otherwise, why do it? Faith is not about mechanics child, it's about giving a damn. Ask yourself, why. Why do you do anything?"  
  
"You get the feeling we're missing something Grissom? Not just us I mean, but the police, the coroner, the FBI, even the dayshift. I mean; we know how he kills them, right? Post mortem agrees that they died from blood loss on site, but why does no one, like the neighbours, hear anything? There's nothing in their systems to indicate they were drugged, it's as if the victims surrendered willingly but you can't tell me eleven people are going to quietly allow some maniac to nail them to a wall and then slash their throats while they're conscious and then he leaves no footprints or blood trail to show he was there; what the fuck does he do, hypnotise them then levitate out?"  
  
The tension in the room spiked sharply, Warrick's outburst vocalising the thoughts of the others. There's nothing a scientist hates more than being confused and a room full of confused scientists and stressed-out cops was a powder keg looking for a match. Grissom looked tiredly at his colleague. "Warrick, I don't know - do I look like the Oacle at Delphi?"  
  
Warrick was about to launch an angry retort when Catherine stepped in to prevent another homicide. "Minds on the job guys. You want to fight? Go beat the crap out of each other after the shift. Look, I've just had a thought. The other victims had blood tests done right?"  
  
"Yeah, but they came up blank Cat, you know that. Ten tests, ten negatives".  
  
"Yes Nick, I know, but the thing is, we discovered those bodies at least three days post mortem, this one's barely twenty-four hours old; there are poisons that breakdown over that time, even in dead tissue, and some quicker than others. Maybe there is something in the blood, we just haven't got to it early enough".  
  
"But they died on site"  
  
Catherine shrugged. "It doesn't have to be fatal, the poison, that is. There are plenty of neurotoxins or paralytics that would render someone immobile, but alive, and that would stop them screaming.  
  
"But why haven't we picked anything up?"  
  
"Probably a combination of assumption and negative results. The first murders were probably tested and came back clean, so after that they were tested less rigorously. Human nature I guess. We are going to do a blood test and everything this time, right.Grissom.Please tell me we're doing a blood analysis?"  
  
"Sounds good Cath, can you swab it for Jackson to analyse immediately?"  
  
"Ummm Grissom?"  
  
"Yes Nick" was the exasperated response.  
  
"Errr Jackson resigned, remember?"  
  
"What about one of you then?"  
  
The four CSI's glanced nervously at each other desperately pressing a metaphorical thumb to their forehead to say 'not me', finally Sara braved the now ominous silence. "Sorry Grissom, it's just way too specialised for any of us, at least to do within a limited timeframe. If we had thirty-six hours, sure, but that would put us outside our window, hell we might even be outside it now"  
  
"What about Vincent? This through clenched teeth.  
  
"Leave. That's one of the reasons we're leaking lab techs, Day shift is passing on their stuff to us; I thought you knew? Ecklie said you knew".  
  
Grissom's teeth could be heard grinding at a distance of ten feet. If any of the CSI's had been adept at telepathy they would have picked the image from Grissom's mind of Conrad Ecklie crucified in place of the current victim, unfortunately all any of them could do was back slowly away from their boss and look nervously around for the nearest escape route.  
  
"What about Greg?"  
  
"Grissom, he resigned. As in: He Doesn't Work For Us Anymore". Catherine spoke slowly, clearly enunciating the obvious.  
  
"Just call him. Please"; the 'please' being little more than a rasp.  
  
Nick shrugged, "OK, I'll try". Taking out his mobile phone, Nick sorted through the various numbers in its memory, trying Greg's home, he got the answer phone and was about to leave a message when the former lab tech picked up.  
  
"Greg speaking".  
  
"Greg, hi, it's Nick"  
  
"Nick? Nick who? .oh. Nick, what do you want?"  
  
"Ummm I need a favour, actually we all do. We don't have a lab tech and we've got something urgent, super urgent".  
  
"And this concerns me because? I quit. Remember?"  
  
Nick looked at Grissom and shook his head, indicating that Greg wasn't interested. Grissom gestured for Nick to pass him the phone. "Greg, Grissom. Look, we need help. Please, this is urgent".  
  
"And why should I help you Grissom, what's in it for me?"  
  
"I don't have time for this Greg, yes or no".  
  
Something in Grissom's voice seemed to penetrate the antagonism Greg felt towards his former colleagues. Resigning himself to the fact that he knew he'd eventually give in he decided to do it gracefully. "Alright Grissom, I'll be at the lab in twenty minutes, but it better be good" and with that the connection was abruptly severed.  
  
Grissom looked at the phone for a second before returning it to Nick. "He said he'd do it. Catherine, you have the samples?" Receiving an affirmative nod, Grissom continued, "Go. Take the samples and get to the lab, the rest of us will tidy up here, if you're right, we don't have time to waste". 


	7. A Crippin for your Conscience

Well, here we are chapter 7. I was having my doubts that this chapter would ever finish. It's a fair bit longer than my usual chapter, which is either a good thing or indicative of far too much pretentious waffling. Hopefully the next chapter won't take three weeks, but since I am starting work on another fic you never know.  
  
Please review and gimme lots of criticism.  
  
BTW: The song quoted is by:  
  
  
  
*The Cowboy Junkies - 'CAUSE CHEAP IS HOW I FEEL - The Caution Horses (1990)  
  
  
  
------------------------  
  
A Crippin for your Conscience  
  
-------------------------  
  
I used to wake up at 4 A.M. and start sneezing, sometimes for five hours. I tried to find out what sort of allergy I had but finally came to the conclusion that it must be an allergy to consciousness.  
  
James Thurber  
  
----  
  
  
  
The television shows that evening presented a vast array of high quality programming obviously targeted at the intellectual and cultural elite of a generation; if, Greg mentally added, you were the supreme overlord of the cabbage people. He had long ago come to the conclusion that television wasn't an attempt to dumb down the masses and subvert their consumer choices, which as a by-product reduced the population to a homogenous herd, television was actually a brazen attempt by some secret, government- sponsored, black-ops unit to suck people's intelligence - or what there was of it - out through their toes and turn them into pod-people, thereafter at the whim of those who held the reins of power. Watching what was ostensibly a comedy, Greg was certain that the Stepford Wives showed more animation and a greater range of actual human emotion than the purported 'actors' on the screen. It was a sad state of affairs, he thought, when you cheered for random vehicles, pot-plants or even UFOs on the off-chance that the core cast was reduced by one or more.  
  
The decision to change the channel or even turn the television off would have been an easier one if he hadn't carelessly left the remote out of reach on the coffee table. As with all males of the species the urge to move once in a state of repose was virtually nil and he glared at the remote control as if blaming it for purposely placing itself out of range. Greg's cat, Benzine, regarded her human with the amused condescension reserved solely for moments of feline superiority. Deciding that now was an appropriate time to be fed she capitalised on her owner's restlessness and judiciously applied her claws to the back of Greg's knee; the resultant scream of agony sent Benzine under the couch but she was soon back and headed for the kitchen, head high and tail raised in victory.  
  
While scraping Benzine's food into her bowl several thoughts competed in Greg's mind, foremost of those was the urge to turn his cat into a pencil case, but practicality won out and he decided to stuff her down the bottom of the bed to keep his feet warm. He was exceptionally fond of his cat, whom he had discovered while studying for his finals in his last year of undergraduate study. He was in the lab alternately studying the structure of various hydrocarbons and attempting not to blow himself up when he had heard a piteous mewling coming from under the fractional distillation unit - which at this time of year was pressed into service for its intended function rather than the its usual purpose; as the source of the upperclassmen's illicit liquor supply. Squatting down, Greg spied a small, grey lump that regarded him with suspicious yellow eyes. The tiny creature stubbornly refused to submit to his attempts at coax it out, so he eventually resorted to a long pipette and some cream stored in the lab's fridge eventually drawing the wee beast out until he could grasp it by the loose fur at its neck.  
  
Unappreciative of its alleged rescue, the kitten signalled its displeasure and Greg was forced to dodge claws and teeth while he checked it for signs of injury. Finding nothing, he was about to deposit the kitten somewhere quiet when his neglected experiment decided that this was the appropriate moment to explode and since it was Benzine he had been examining - until it had spread itself over the walls and ceiling - the kitten was named Benzine in it's honour; and in recognition of the similarities in their temperaments.  
  
Of similar temperament to his cat was Rilie, whom he had encountered only once since his rush to his first class. She had been friendly enough, asking how things were going and rolling her eyes in empathy as he related how Prof. Mueller had examined everybody's preparation for the class; a one minute piece in A minor, and roundly informed them that they knew nothing about composition, music and indeed life in general. Fortunately for Greg, he hadn't been the target of her ire that day; instead she chose to vent on a poor girl from New York, informing her that if she presented such a travesty in her class again she'd rip out the girls lungs and use them to make bagpipes.  
  
"So it was a really good piece then?" asked Rilie.  
  
Greg nodded sympathetically. "Yeah, it was. I thought Sam was going to go for Mueller's throat, but instead she ducked and covered. Apparently assaulting a professor is grounds for expulsion".  
  
"., which is just as well for Mueller or she'd have needed to have been resurrected several times by now"; Rilie had then headed off to class, with a parting jibe that Greg was probably safe from Mueller's wrath.  
  
Greg was having problems figuring the woman out. One minute she was friendly, ten seconds latter she showed all the empathy of a Klan rally; it was just fortunate she was a complete babe otherwise he might just have to kill her.  
  
The phone ringing interrupted Greg's reminiscences; he wasn't expecting anyone to call but as it was only 9:30PM it wasn't really that late. Pausing to place Benzine's food on the floor - of course the cat was nowhere to be seen - and snagging the remote to mute the television he slid across the floor to pick up the phone before the answerphone cut in. He was only partially successful getting there halfway through the message.  
  
'.Hi this is Greg, the aliens are planning on returning me sometime soon..'  
  
"Greg speaking"  
  
"Greg? Hi, it's Nick"  
  
"Nick? . Nick who? . Oh, Nick". What the hell is Nick Stokes ringing me for? I quit didn't I, I'm sure I quit. "Why are you calling, Nick?"  
  
"I need.well actually we need a favour".  
  
They need a favour? And I repeat; I quit.  
  
"Nick, I quit. Remember? Greg has left the building. Hasta la vista, Greg".  
  
"Yeah, I know.look, here's Grissom".  
  
Greg did a little dance of non-joy as he waited for his former boss to pick up the phone. Benzine, who had come stalking out of the bedroom, seeing her human acting more strangely than usual, immediately turned around and retreated; she wanted none of this, whatever it was.  
  
Greg's thoughts were interrupted by Grissom's voice, abrupt as usual. "Greg, Grissom. Look, we need help. This is urgent".  
  
"And why should I help you Grissom, what's in it for me?" How about a million dollars? I know I quit I know I quit I know I quit. Maybe I'll just tap my heels three times and he'll go away. OK Greg, calm, listen to the man, no obligation here.  
  
"I don't have time for this Greg, yes or no".  
  
You don't have time for this? He thought. Gee thanks Grissom, who's doing the favour for whom? I quit dammit; I quit! I don't work for you. "All right Grissom", Greg said, resigned to his fate. "I'll be down at the lab in about twenty minutes dependent on the traffic; make sure there's someone there to meet me. Later".  
  
"Way to stand strong Sanders; you really showed them who's boss". Greg was not happy with himself. In truth, he was several miles beyond angry, incandescent with fury at his own inability to stand up for himself was probably a more accurate assessment. At times like these he often wondered why he did anything because he inevitably felt like he had achieved nothing.  
  
Reaching for his jacket and keys, Greg headed out the door followed only by a resigned flash of yellow eyes.  
  
Traffic wasn't too bad on the way into the lab and Greg could have arrived much sooner than he did, but the obvious antipathy he'd experienced when speaking to Nick and Grissom, translated into a rigid, and wholly uncharacteristic, adherence to the speed limit. The usual soundtrack of hard-driving punk and nu-metal with which he had always psyched himself up for a shift was also absent, instead the radio was tuned to 666 HURT fm and the melancholy sounds of the Cowboy Junkies guided him towards his destination.  
  
"Half moon in the sky tonight, bright enough  
  
to come up with an answer  
  
to the question why is it that every time I see you  
  
my love grows a little stronger  
  
But your memory leaves my stomach churning,  
  
feeling like a lie about to be revealed,  
  
but I'll horde all this to myself  
  
'cause cheap is how I feel"*  
  
Turning into the car park, Greg was struck by the inevitable sense of déjà vu; of course this was a factual kind of déjà vu rather than a memory inspired by a feeling or a dream. Truth be told, if Greg had had his way this moment would have been a deja wasn't or a deja didn't, but you can't have everything. Irony was obviously smiling beatifically down on Greg this evening for his old park was free, a point that would have been obvious if he had been aware of the revolving door policy adopted by the lab techs who had briefly filled the position in his absence.  
  
Exiting his car and striding across the car park everything appeared to be where it should be, except for himself, he noted wryly. The only thing that did not appear to be as it should was the lack of a CSI waiting for him at reception. This did not endear Grissom to him in the slightest, 'so much for professional courtesy' he muttered. Deciding that he had better things to do than wait around on someone else's pleasure, Greg decided to leave and had just reached the electronic doors at the front of the building when he, almost literally, ran into Catherine coming in the other direction.  
  
"You're late".  
  
"And hello to you too Greg. Yes, I'm late and I'm sorry, there was a pile up on the road coming back in; I had to divert".  
  
"Fine, did you not think to call ahead?"  
  
"No, sorry. Look, what's with the hostility?"  
  
"I don't work here anymore Catherine, remember? I don't appreciate being called, at home, at night, and being virtually ordered to come here. To top it all off, you're late; you expect me to be a little ray of sunshine?  
  
"You all wanted to know why I left? Here's a reason right here. I am not your fucking slave. I am not at your beck-and-call".  
  
Catherine was taken aback by the sheer vehemence of Greg's tirade, privately she agreed with the former tech that Grissom was indeed way out of line in asking him to come in, but she kept her visage neutral. "So why don't you go home? Nothing's keeping you here".  
  
"Well it's either this or Celebrity Plastic Surgery on the TV and since I'm here now." he shrugged. "Look, let's just get it done so I can go, all right?" Greg's curiosity finally got the better of him, "So what have we got?"  
  
"Shakespeare killer"  
  
"Oh goody. Let me guess, it was a pile up of news crews that delayed you?"  
  
The press had named their resident psycho, The Shakespeare Killer in their enthusiasm for the carved references on each body; ghoulish it may have been, but it was good copy and that was inevitably all that mattered. Ecklie had been heard to mutter that the killer should go butcher a few reporters and that was the one and only time in recorded history that Grissom had been in total agreement with his day-shift adversary. Such was the revulsion evoked by the Shakespearean quoting maniac, that even Ecklie had put aside his normal political agenda for the purpose of nailing this particular bastard to a wall.  
  
"So what have brought me Catherine?"  
  
"Blood sample. We want you to test it for foreign substances: toxins, poisons, the whole deal".  
  
"But this has all been done before, and every time it's come up blank, what's the rush?"  
  
"This victim got found early, within twenty-four hours, we're hoping something might still be in the system. Grissom also thinks that we've got sloppy, the first few tests found nothing and thereafter everyone's been focusing on the slashed throat and the crucifixion".  
  
"But the slashed throat was the cause of death"  
  
Catherine waited for Greg's years of experience to catch up with his weeks of inactivity; for obvious reasons he was a little rusty. Watching her former colleague deep in thought, Catherine realised how quiet the lab had become without his somewhat manic presence. The professional side of her personality also made a sotto voce notation as to how inefficient the lab had become since Greg's departure.  
  
".unless of course you're asking me to search for something prior to death; perhaps an immobilising agent perhaps or a neurotoxin or something similar?"  
  
Catherine nodded "Collect Two-Hundred, Greg".  
  
Greg smiled briefly, "We'd better move Catherine, most neurotoxins and paralytics break down in twenty-four hours or less, assuming it's organically based of course. You've got the blood sample? Then let's go"  
  
Twenty minutes later, Catherine was starting to feel completely useless. It wasn't as if she didn't know her way around the lab it was just that watching Greg, made her feel like a neophyte who'd just mastered 'Chopsticks' watching Artur Rubinstein casually play a Liszt etude. The ease with which he moved from analyser to spectrometer to chromatograph was akin to a dance and underlined what a loss to the lab he really was; not that she was going to say anything of course, Greg was aggravated enough already this evening; turning him homicidal would probably be counter productive to the ongoing development of the investigation.  
  
"Got anything yet Greg?"  
  
"Other than a headache?"  
  
"Yes, other than a headache"  
  
"No".  
  
Without turning from the analysis he was doing he pointed at the Mass Spec, "That thing should be done, give me a printout of the results.please" the courtesy, obviously an absentminded afterthought, did nothing to lessen the tense atmosphere of the lab. Catherine would, at that precise point in time, have preferred fighting with Eddie over Lyndsey, or disembowelling one of Ecklie's lascivious asides - or even Ecklie himself if necessary - rather than spend a moment longer with Greg who was muttering all manner of vile imprecations under his breath as he worked.  
  
"Greg? I'm going to see how far away the others are, if you want me I'll be down in Grissom's office". Receiving an inarticulate grunt in response she left.  
  
Thank god she's gone, thought Greg; I hate being watched, especially when the person watching me isn't sure if I am going to pull a machete on them or not and who also tiptoes around me with all the subtlety of an Eddie Murphy stage show.  
  
Suppressing a sigh, he returned to the puzzle in front of him, Catherine, in her nervousness hadn't been particularly forthcoming with useful information and he'd had to piece together various assumptions dredged from his memories of the case from when he had worked at the lab. It was funny; funny strange that is, not funny haha, but it was almost as if he'd never left the lab. For all his eagerness to depart, never to return, the various instruments welcomed him like an old friend; even his secret stash of ultra- special coffee was still in it's hiding place - if he'd been feeling less antagonistic he could have read all number of hidden meanings into this - however, Greg's thoughts were currently alternating between swearing at the results the sample was returning and picturing Grissom being run down by a hungry tyrannosaur.  
  
The tyrannosaur won.  
  
Studying the printouts in front of him Greg wasn't sure what he was reading as the results were conflicting; the only thing of which he could be certain was that the only foreign substance in the victim's blood - if indeed there was anything in the blood because he printouts didn't agree on that either - wasn't synthetic: synthetic compounds had a tendency to hang around in the system longer than organic compounds especially in cases where the victim was post mortem and the biological systems were no longer able to filter out or neutralise the various chemical components extant.  
  
Determining that it wasn't a synthetic compound meant, by an obvious process of exclusion, that the toxin used was organic, however, Greg had come to the conclusion that the time period between the actual moment of death and his examination of the blood was long enough for any chemicals within the system to begin the process of decay and it was this which was screwing up his test results.  
  
OK, he thought, since I'm pretty sure that we're dealing with an organic toxin what else do we know? He recalled that the actual cause of death was blood loss from the slashed throat, but as others before him had commented, he didn't see the victims volunteering to be nailed to a wall then mutilated, so it was possible to logically infer that the victims' were immobilised in some way and since there were no ligature marks or signs of blunt force trauma it pointed to the toxin being the disabling component. Greg snorted in aggravated bemusement; an organic toxin that disabled and didn't kill; well that only left several thousand possibilities including a good stiff drink, which Greg was all in favour of at this point in time.  
  
His vision of a large Gin and Tonic was interrupted by Catherine's return.  
  
"Warrick just called, they'll be back in about twenty minutes".  
  
"Have they got anything else for me to work with?"  
  
"Not really, just the usual hair and fibre samples, but we can give those to the day shift; if nothing else it will aggravate Ecklie and that will cheer Grissom up some. Anyway, you come up with anything?"  
  
"Nothing concrete. I can tell you that it's organic, but it had degraded too much for a positive ID. If I had to guess I'd say it's probably an alkaloid of some sort, but that's just a stab in the dark. Whatever it is though, it's not a fatal dosage as everyone has said that it was the blood loss that killed the victims".  
  
"Well I suppose that's something," said Catherine, "Do you want to wait around for the others or do you want to go?  
  
"Well, there's not really much point in staying as there's not a lot more I can do. Tell Grissom the bill's in the mail".  
  
"Bill?"  
  
"Remember Catherine, I don't work here now, consider me a consultant; a high-priced consultant".  
  
"Grissom, will be pleased" Catherine replied, her sarcastic tone failing to completely mask the humour of the moment, "Just as well you're going to mail it Greg, or you'll end up in one of his specimen bottles; alive I imagine, as there's no fun poking you with sticks if you're dead".  
  
"Nice image Cath, makes me feel all warm and." Greg's retort stopped cold. "Catherine, just how big a nut job do you think we're dealing with? Seriously, I mean do we have a psych profile on the guy?"  
  
Catherine paused a moment before answering as she searched her memory for anything relevant. "Well we know he's not psychotic, he's too organised, too tidy - obsessively so in fact. We don't think it's sexually motivated; at least there's nothing to indicate that type of pathology. There's no doubt though that he enjoys what he does, the victims are purposely arranged to display his handiwork, Sara said it was like the guy was looking for audience approval".  
  
"Back up a sec, has anyone made a link between the organisation and the enjoyment aspects? It's not like he has an audience because the victim's disable.Whoa, hold everything, Catherine, do you think it's possible that the victim's aware of what's going on, aware of what he's doing to them?"  
  
Catherine paled "Greg, that's sick, there's no way he could do that".  
  
"Actually there is Catherine" the voice came from behind her "There's several families of toxins which completely disable the victim, but also leaves them conscious and aware of what's happening. I assume that's what you're thinking, Greg?"  
  
A fleeting scowl crossed Greg's features before he answered "Yes, Grissom. That's exactly what I'm thinking".  
  
"Curare?"  
  
".Probably the same family, but not curare itself".  
  
"Why?"  
  
"Curare will kill you, unless you've got someone independently resuscitating you until the effects of the toxin wears off; somehow, I can't see your nutter administering mouth-to-mouth while he nails them to the wall, even physically it would be just about impossible"  
  
"What about a breather tank or something like that?"  
  
"If what Catherine tells me is true, it would appear that he gets off on the whole pain and control situation, he's not going to use anything that is going to require him to change his focus". Greg grimaced, "Anyway, that's purely supposition; getting back to why I'm here, I can't tell you anything else, the sample's too degraded" Grabbing his jacket off the back of his - the - chair he corrected himself he turned to go, "Well, I'll see you later and" having noticed that he hadn't hidden his secret coffee stash "tell Sara that she can keep the coffee, probably time she upgraded from the vague facsimile she usually drinks".  
  
Halfway down the corridor he heard someone call his name, turning Greg was unsurprised to see the CSI head jogging to catch up with him.  
  
"Greg, have you got a minute?"  
  
"Alright, Grissom".  
  
"My office?"  
  
"Here is fine".  
  
If Grissom was at all taken aback he hid it well, "Ok. Fine. Look, Greg, I'd like you to come back to the lab, we need an experienced tech".  
  
"No".  
  
"No? Is that it? Just no?"  
  
"Yes.  
  
"I left Grissom, you didn't fire me. I went for my own reasons and my actual feelings for this place were, at best, peripheral in making that decision".  
  
"But we're getting behind in our work we can't afford to let that happen". Grissom mentally winced, he sounded like he was whining, the last thing he ever thought he would do was approach Greg Sanders in the position of the supplicant; but here he was and he had to make the bet of it.  
  
"But that's not my problem Grissom, I don't work here, it's not my work that's falling behind". Even to himself he sounded harsh but he was determined not to give in to the little voice in the back of his mind that was trying to make him feel guilty. For too long he had listened to his guilt and finally having broken the shackles he wasn't going to let it come back, even with reinforcements.  
  
Grissom's frustrations boiled over. He could understand Greg's position and his former lab tech wasn't, if he was being honest, the cause of his problems, but in the here and now, Greg was right in front of him and that was enough for the normally tightly controlled professional to lose it.  
  
"Not your problem" he hissed "No, it's never anyone's problem. When push comes to shove just walk away. Where the hell is your loyalty? I really thought you gave a damn about this" - about us, his mind whispered - "And what happens when the next person struck down in someone you care about."  
  
The last comment was too close to home for Greg, Grissom for all that he was not in control of his emotions had crossed a line and the look in Greg's eyes stopped him cold. Greg crossed the distance between them in a second and with his face less than an inch from Grissom's he stared icily at the older man. "It was always going to happen Grissom, that one day you would say the wrong thing. Don't talk to me about loyalty and how dare you lecture me on devotion when I've never been anything more to you than a useful tool"  
  
Grissom, realising that he had gone too far attempted to deny the accusation but he never got the chance.  
  
"What I choose to do is my business, not yours. Even when I worked here your authority extended to neither my mind nor my soul, so who the hell do you think you are to lecture me? Go sort your own issues out; I don't need this". Moving to brush past Grissom he noticed that the rest of the CSI team had gathered in a little knot at the end of the corridor and they were watching the performance while pretending to look at everything other than the two protagonists.  
  
"Enjoying the show?  
  
"Grissom, your cheerleaders are here".  
  
Grissom said nothing, his silence articulation enough.  
  
"Well, I'll be going then. Have a pleasant evening". There was no mistaking the irony in his words as he headed down the corridor away from the CSIs who had gathered about their leader.  
  
"Greg? Greg, wait up".  
  
What now? Can't they leave me alone? No doubt they're here to tell me that Grissom didn't mean it and that he's under a huge amount of pressure.  
  
"Look, Greg", it was Sara - Grissom's chief apologist - "Grissom didn't mean it, he's under a huge amount of pressure. Really, he appreciates your help this evening; we all do", she made as if to lay a reassuring hand on his arm but withdrew the gesture uncertain as to how it would be received.  
  
"Yes, I noticed all that appreciation" Sara winced. Greg continued, wielding his sarcasm like a scalpel. "Remember back Sara, to the night I left? You said almost exactly the same things Grissom just did, so all things considered, can I assume you didn't mean it either?"  
  
"That's not fair, the circumstances are completely different".  
  
"So you did mean it?"  
  
"Yes.No.Yes. Greg, that's not the point, the point is that neither Grissom, nor myself or the others wanted you to leave".  
  
"We're going in circles Sara. Again, and, god willing, for the last time, it comes back to my wanting to leave having nothing to do what you want. This evening you asked for my help and for some reason, call it sentiment if you like, I said yes; I won't make that mistake again. I know Grissom, you all in fact, are under pressure, but the thing is he doesn't treat any of you like he treated me this evening or in the past; I'm a tool to him Sara, and while it's not the reason I left, it is one of the reasons why I won't come back. You can deny it all you want but you know it's true".  
  
Sara didn't bother to deny the accusation, not because she completely agreed with Greg, but she knew that anything else she said at this point in time would only make things worse. Disheartened she turned away, saddened by the thought that she couldn't make things right, that she couldn't mend the fences her mentor had torn down.  
  
Sensing Sara's dejection, Greg's manner softened somewhat for despite the previous pronouncement sentiment strongly bound him to this place. "Look Sara, if there is ever a real need then call, and if I can I'll help; I have only one condition, you don't tell Grissom".  
  
"But.Greg.he has to know."  
  
"No. I'm not doing this for him, or even for you; I'm doing it for me, you can accept my condition or look for your help somewhere else".  
  
"That's blackmail"  
  
"Not really, the only thing I'm getting out of this is karmic brownie points. If it was blackmail I'd bill you and let you explain that to Grissom instead". "OK Greg, you're right, it's not blackmail it's sadism".  
  
"We aim to please. Please me that is, but you can't have everything. Can I go now?"  
  
"Sure you can go, who was stopping you?" Grinning at the murderous look Greg gave her, Sara unleashed a brilliant smile on her wary victim, "And Greg, thank you".  
  
"OK. Bye Sara".  
  
I quit. I'm sure I quit. Dammit, I know I quit. But if I quit then what the hell was that? Sanders, you're too damn soft. But for all his misgivings he felt good. Must be that damn karma he muttered as he climbed into his car and headed home. 


	8. Four and Twenty Blackbirds

Well, here we are, Chapter 8 - at least I think it's 8. This has taken me a god's age to get done and I apologise, but unfortunately life and the mean management types at work don't stop for a hobby. I went back and re-read the earlier chapters the other day and winced in horror at the earliest chapters, I must, - to quote Star Trek - have been channelling an Andorian Spirit Dancer with a Scrabble set when I wrote those, I promise to go back and revise them at some point. On a technical note: Does anyone know how, when this is uploaded as a word document to make the damn FF formatting keep the ellipses that I put in - I swear, I know what a comma is.  
  
BTW: Anyone wanna be a Beta Reader?  
  
  
  
Every man is guilty of all the good he didn't do. Voltaire  
  
All God's children are not beautiful. Most of God's children are, in fact, barely presentable. Fran Lebowitz  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
The small knot of CSIs watched Greg stalk down the hall and more than one imagined they heard the electronic sliding doors slam shut behind him. The stereotypical pin drop would have sounded like a thunderclap in the echoing silence that the former lab tech left behind him but inevitably the silence was filled with the returning sounds of the workplace and a slowly growing susurration tinged with acrimony and exasperation.  
  
"What the hell was that Grissom?"  
  
Unsurprisingly, it was Catherine, flame-haired and strangely reminiscent of pissed off valkyrie, who addressed her boss. Actually, addressed isn't strictly accurate. Much in the manner of Greg, Catherine stood less than a foot from Grissom when she addressed him; unlike Greg, the finger she waved in his face appeared, from Grissom's perspective, to have assumed a particularly unhealthy resemblance to a poniard and his subconscious, unsure of which organs to protect, reflexively covered his groin and eyes.  
  
"What was what, Catherine?"  
  
If Grissom's response had been in any way a justification of his actions his accuser would in good grace have pinned him to the wall, but the sheer naiveté of his statement brought Catherine up short; so dumbstruck in fact by the cluelessness of her colleague that her mouth continued to move but only muted strangling sounds came forth, and the hand, which seconds before sought to skewer him, now made to repeatedly hit its owner in the forehead.  
  
"I think what Catherine's suggesting Grissom, is that you handled that poorly. Given, however, that Catherine is inclined to be slightly more tactful than myself, let me just add that even by your own completely oblivious standards what you said to Greg will go down in history as being only slightly less sensitive than when Vlad the Impaler nailed a response to an emissary's head".  
  
Grissom looked bewildered, it was rare indeed for Warrick to call him on his behaviour. "Sara, was what I said really that bad?"  
  
The head CSI's staunchest supporter, shook her head "Oh no you don't, not me, Grissom, I am so not going there, you messed up big this time and even the fact that I want to jump." she blushed, reduced to Catherine-like levels of articulation.  
  
Nick grinned evilly at his colleague, "Close Sidle, too close".  
  
If anything, Grissom was now even more confused "OK, what was that about? And would someone please tell me what I did wrong".  
  
"Well Grissom" began Nick, in a gentle voice, "it's like this, when a girl likes a OW!!!" Grimacing at Sara: who had stood on his toes, the beatific expression of her face not fully disguising the annoyed flash in her eyes, Nick reverted to the topic at hand. "What the others are suggesting Grissom, is that you treated Greg badly. Actually, if I were to characterise your actions, I would suggest that I've seen pieces of evidence treated with more respect and courtesy than you showed Greg this evening".  
  
"Well maybe I was a bit harsh, but that's not the point, we need him to work and he wouldn't come back".  
  
So intent was he on explaining his reasoning that Grissom didn't noticed the expressions on the faces of his colleagues, which ranged from bemusement at Grissom's single-mindedness to outright disbelief at the head CSI's separation from reality.  
  
"Grissom, it's not like he's on leave, you can't order him to come back", remarked Catherine. "You know, I'm starting to see Greg's point, you do treat him like a piece of furniture. Actually, if he was a piece of furniture he'd get treated with a bit more respect".  
  
"Now Catherine, that's not fair, Grissom treats the furniture extremely well, considering of course that it's inanimate, and doesn't possess a personality in any measurable sense of the word; a bit like Grissom really".  
  
"Thanks for that Warrick. Now if we can.." Grissom paused to glare at Nick and Sara who were desperately trying to suppress laughter. "Return to the matter at hand; we still don't have a lab tech and the amount work backing up is reaching almost legislative proportions. Short of kidnapping someone from out of state or launching a raid on some of the local colleges we're royally screwed".  
  
While Grissom was saying this, Sara was battling her conscience. Greg had made her promise that she wouldn't tell Grissom about his offer to help, but the seriousness of the situation, and her inherent loyalty to her mentor, was creating a conflict she would have preferred not to deal with; life was difficult enough without acting as a double agent. Deciding that inference was the best form of offence, and the only option, which allowed her complete deniability, Sara decided to play both ends against the middle.  
  
"You could try calling Greg, again"  
  
"You're crazy Sidle, the only thing that's gonna happen if Grissom calls Greg, is that Greg will take a restraining order out on him".  
  
"He could apologise, Nick". Sara paused glancing towards her boss, "You do know how to apologise don't you Grissom?" Receiving no response, Sara turned to Catherine, "You've worked with him longest, can he apologise?"  
  
Smiling at her colleague, Catherine ensured there was a wall of Warrick between herself and Grissom before answering. "It's been known to happen Sara, I think the last recorded incidence was three years ago when he spilled his coffee on the mayor, however, you can't make him. I remember, just before you started, Grissom was ordered to apologise to Ecklie for something, Grissom looked like he was going to have a stroke so the matter was dropped".  
  
"Do you mind" was the acid response, "I am right here".  
  
"So you are!" exclaimed Catherine excitedly  
  
"She's been taking lessons from Lyndsey" was Warrick's, sotto voce remark to Nick who smirked in response.  
  
With enormous dignity, Grissom turned his back on the others and addressed Sara directly, "Do you think it would help if I called him and apologised?"  
  
"I do Grissom, but you've got to mean it, he'll know if you don't".  
  
Clearly unhappy, but faced with no viable alternative, Grissom nodded resignedly and wandered off down the corridor; to practise apologising in front of the mirror, if Nick was to be believed.  
  
**************  
  
THE NEXT DAY  
  
**************  
  
  
  
  
  
Yawning mightily, a very dishevelled Greg Sanders wandered across campus in search of coffee. He had got home around midnight, which in the scheme of things wasn't that late, but the following three hours were spent in a futile search for sleep. He'd ended up giving his hot milk to Benzine who mewed piteously at the prospect of being left out and eventually, after several hours of alternating between staring at the ceiling and a futile effort at counting sheep - he'd quit somewhere around the eight hundred mark - he'd done some thinking.  
  
Resentment wasn't something that came easily to Greg, wallowing in self- pity as he usually was. Even when he'd left the lab to come to university, the feelings of being thought of as little more than a tool were essentially a pretext to get out of the excuse for a life he was living without being questioned too closely as to his real motivations, which even now he had no real wish to share. But last night had left him bitter and ruing his weak will. Hindsight informed him that he should have just told Grissom to go fuck himself on the phone, but then, he mused, if I had told him that on the phone then I wouldn't have had a reason to go to the lab and then I wouldn't have had a reason to tell him anything on the phone.  
  
Hindsight hated its little brothers: irony, paradox and logic.  
  
After a disjointed five hours sleep, Greg had thrown himself out of bed, clad himself on those things that most closely resembled clothing and left, pausing only to feed Benzine and turn his shirt outside out. The drive to the university was uneventful - inasmuch as he didn't hit anything - and after sleeping through Mueller's class, he went in search of nourishment, preferably of the black, viscous kind.  
  
"Sanders!"  
  
Wheeling around in bewilderment, Greg belatedly realised he had walked past the café and it was only through dubious fortune that Rilie, coming in the other direction, had hailed him. Greg wasn't entirely sure whether he was conscious enough to deal with Rilie this morning, but this line of thought was curtailed as she grabbed him by the arm and dragged him, bodily towards the café.  
  
"Sanders, you look like shit, have a coffee".  
  
"Good morning to you too Rilie, are you normally this officious before lunch?"  
  
"No, just for you".  
  
"Oh good, don't I feel special?"  
  
"Probably, but I doubt your conception of special and mine are in any way similar".  
  
"That would be because I'm normal. and sane".  
  
"Only in your little corner of the universe. Anyway, you going to order or just stand here being objectionable? Seriously, you look like shit".  
  
Ordering accomplished, the two found themselves a quiet corner to sit with a view of open auditorium that housed the university's drama productions. Greg was so tired that he simply disappeared into a separate space-time continuum and was only brought back to the here and now by the dual arrival of the coffee and Rilie's hand to the back of his head.  
  
"Wake up Sanders, coffee's here".  
  
All conversation was terminated as Greg buried himself in his triple-shot, full-fat Vienna, only coming up for air when two thirds of the coffee was gone, then, prompted by his companion's enquiring look he volunteered the fact that he was tired. Rilie, completely underwhelmed by this stating of the blindingly obvious bluntly enquired as to whom had been the unlucky recipient of Greg's amorous intentions.  
  
"Subtle Andrews, even by your remarkably tactless standards. Anyway, what does it matter to you if I am screwing someone?" Greg continued over the top of Rilie's furious and obscenity-laced denials of interest, "The truth of the matter is that I was working at the CSI lab and didn't get home 'til late then I had trouble sleeping".  
  
"But I thought you'd quit" she replied.  
  
"I did, but they're short of lab techs; apparently they keep resigning, so I got a call begging me to come in".  
  
"What did you get out of it?"  
  
"Apart from a stay of execution on my eternal soul? Not a lot; I thought about billing them though".  
  
"Are you going to?"  
  
Greg looked dubious, as much as he wanted to emphasize the fact to Grissom that he didn't work for him any more, he also knew in just how dire a condition the LVPD was in terms of funding. It was ironic, he thought, that they had to have a mayor who had run on the twin platforms of Law and Order and fiscal austerity. In practise, this meant that the mayor wanted increased police efficiency and effectiveness without having to actually pay for it; the end result being an angry police union and happy criminals - and a mayor unlikely to win re-election.  
  
"It would be quicker if I just raided the petty cash but that's so not my scene, I'll probably just forget about it, consider it a favour, a tally mark on the positive side of my karmic balance sheet if you like".  
  
Rilie shook her head in aggravation; she couldn't make Greg out. Sometimes he was this cocky bastard with a smart mouth and sexy eyes and other times he was Mr Introspective, who wouldn't raise his voice in anger; she wasn't sure whether to jump him, slap him, or put him out of his - and her - misery. She settled for taking another sip of her coffee. "So, what are you doing this afternoon?"  
  
"Meeting Hiller and the rest of the herd at the Idiot Savant" he said, naming the campus' local bar, "Apparently we're discussing the impact of karaoke on social interaction, personally I think the mean bastard's gonna get us all to sing".  
  
Rilie snorted, "He did that to us last year too, turned into a major piss- up and ended up with a couple of the girls doing a strip to the Wild Thing".  
  
"I bet the guys enjoyed that".  
  
"Well it was only fair, they got their asses kicked at pool by Nikki and yours truly and had just run naked around the pub three times in forfeit; in the end it didn't matter, everyone was so smashed and so completely embarrassed the next day that nothing was ever said about it except as part of campus folk law".  
  
"Surely Hiller got censured by the Board of Governors?"  
  
"Nah, no-one reported what was going on. Anyway, rumour has it that Hiller caught the chairman doing something, or more correctly someone, he shouldn't have and thus he has professional immunity. What is fact is that his family are big donors to the alumni association and the board doesn't want to piss them off".  
  
"Politics is a wonderful thing".  
  
"Indeed it is. Look, Greg, you busy tonight? I mean are you going to be working again?"  
  
"No, last night was special, why you asking?  
  
"Some of my friends are getting together for some pool later on, you want to come?"  
  
"Do I get to keep my clothes?"  
  
"We'll see. Meet me here at six, OK?" Rilie looked at her watch, "Shit! I'm late, Mueller's gonna gut me, I'll see you later".  
  
Watching Rilie's retreating back, Greg mentally shrugged to himself, decided that she was indeed strange, but nonetheless still pretty cool for all that; tonight promised to be interesting.  
  
Several hours later, Greg found himself at the Idiot Savant and true to predictions Hiller was employing various leveraging tactics in order to get his class to make fools of themselves. Having failed in his attempt to get two of the girls to perform, Hiller turned his attention to Greg, who was doing his best to appear inconspicuous by hiding behind several pitchers of beer.  
  
"C'mon Sanders, you're up".  
  
"No, I'm sitting and not moving".  
  
"Consider it an extra-credit assignment".  
  
"My marks are high enough thanks professor, I don't need the extra-credit".  
  
"Where's your sense of adventure then?"  
  
"Strangled at birth. Look, why don't you sing something if you're so keen on the whole idea?"  
  
The professor snorted, "I learnt long ago not to inflict my voice on anyone when I was studying as an undergraduate. I only teach the graduate survey course because I was away when they nominated me for it and since this is my burden I try and derive some small measure of amusement from it; you'll get to do my real course next year if you survive".  
  
"And what's that?"  
  
"Neurolinguistic composition. Essentially it looks at the structuring of sounds and lyrics to effect moods, emotions, and reactions. My PhD studied the application of NLC to violent offenders and psychiatric patients, interesting, but pretty freaky. Now, are you going to sing?".  
  
Again, Greg started to refuse but his refusal was eviscerated when the other students decided that he was indeed going to sing and that he was going to sing now. Years of dealing with Grissom had taught Greg when the inevitable was indeed inevitable, and he acceded with passing good grace. Walking towards the stage, that was set up to the right of the bar, he snared a song list and scanned it quickly. To his relief, there were an acceptable number of alternative tracks available in addition to the sappy love songs and aggravating rock anthems that usually dominated such affairs.  
  
Greg arrived at the end of the song list before he made his choice; smiling grimly, he indicated his decision to the student operating the sound system, and took his place on the stage. Clearing his throat, Greg addressed the bar at large, and more specifically, the small knot of music students.  
  
"Hi folks. This is for the music department students who are here this evening, take your opportunities to wish them well because it's unlikely they'll survive the evening"  
  
With that said, Greg indicated that he was ready and the music began. The unmistakeable piano chords of World Party assaulted the audience and Greg smiled maliciously as he followed the intro into the first verse:  
  
"We're setting sail To the place on earth From which no-one has ever returned Drawn by the promise of the joker and the fool By the light of the crosses that burn Drawn by the promise of the women and the lace And the gold and the cotton and pearls It's the place where they keep all the darkness you need Where you sail away from the light of the world, Come on this trip baby  
  
You will pay tomorrow You're gonna pay tomorrow You will pay tomorrow-oooohh oh oh oh  
  
Save me Save from tomorrow I don't want to sail with this ship of fools  
  
OHHH-Oh-Oh  
  
Save me Save from tomorrow I don't want to sail with this ship of fools  
  
I want to run and hide Right Now  
  
Avarice and Greed Are gonna drive you over the endless sea They will leave you a-drifting in the shallows Drowning in the oceans of history..  
  
The crowd that had gathered in the bar started to get into the music [AN: It has a really catchy tune - ask any 80's refugee] and Greg, swept up by the enthusiasm that he appeared to be generating, redoubled his efforts; such as they were. By the time the song neared its finish the whole bar was singing the final chorus, Greg glanced towards the back of the room and spied Rilie, leaning against the wall and trying desperately not to laugh.  
  
With the music finished, Greg jumped of the stage and headed for the back of the bar, acknowledging the good-humoured ribaldry of his fellow patrons as he pushed through them. Pausing only to inform Heller that he was owed a drink, Greg waded to the place where he had last seen Rilie, only to find her gone. Looking around, and not seeing her in the bar, he headed outside and found her perched on the bonnet of her car, obviously waiting for him.  
  
"Well I did warn you".  
  
"Yes you did. But it could have been worse, Heller was threatening me with country music".  
  
"A fate worse than death".  
  
"Well it's not that bad, a former colleague of mine used to listen to it all the time; it was a trade off, I didn't complain about his country and he didn't complain when I played Black Flag and The Ramones".  
  
"Black Flag?" Rilie's glance was questioning.  
  
"You don't know who Black Flag is." Greg was horrified, his voice fading out as he sought to comprehend the mystifying presence of someone, obviously a musical luddite, who didn't worship at the alter of the Gods of Punk Rock. "You have a lot to learn Rilie, and we may as well begin your education over that game of pool you were promising me".  
  
"Right. Let's go".  
  
************************ THE LAB THAT EVENING ************************  
  
Conrad Ecklie was not a popular man.  
  
Conrad Ecklie was a man who went by The Book.  
  
There were those that said that Conrad Ecklie had The Book jammed so far up his arse that it affected the way he walked; in fact they wondered how he managed to kiss the mayor's ass as much as he did with The Book interfering with what was considered a normal human reaction.  
  
Conrad Ecklie was a man wronged.  
  
Ecklie himself, if anyone had bothered to ask him, was more than happy to admit his shortcomings. Yes, he went by the book, but that was more an acknowledgement that he lacked the intuition and creativity to wing it and he'd rather play the percentages than screw it all up. As for the alleged brown-nosing, sure, he was an inherently political animal, but he also understood that the action at the coal-face, especially in law-enforcement, didn't happen just because there was an urge for justice to be achieved, it needed those in power - idiot, ignorant or otherwise - to grease the wheels; and if he could assist in the greasing then so be it.  
  
His colleagues didn't see the non-office Ecklie: his love of classical music, his regular volunteer work, his close-knit family; all they saw was the bureaucrat and the image of the bureaucrat obscured the fact that Ecklie was just as brilliant in his own way as Grissom.  
  
Grissom, the mere thought set Ecklie's teeth on edge. He didn't hate Grissom; in fact he respected him, or more correctly, his ability. What he couldn't stand was Grissom's pigheadedness, his tendency to plough ahead when a little discretion would have saved a whole lot of trouble; but perhaps most of all he hated Grissom's assurance that he was right.  
  
If he were being honest he would have admitted that what he hated most in Grissom was what he hated most in himself - then again, he would have had to kill himself first, or more probably kill Grissom, then himself is such thought s became public.  
  
The latest cause for conflict between the two shift-heads was the chronic shortage of decent; read any, lab techs. To Ecklie's mind, the problem had started with the departure of that weirdo Sanders, and since Sanders worked on Grissom's shift it was obviously Grissom's fault that he'd left; he'd stated as much when he encountered his adversary in the parking lot after his shift had ended.  
  
Grissom's immediate response was to less-than-politely inform Ecklie that he was a grade-A arsehole for palming off his work on the already overburdened night shift. Things had degenerated from there and it was only the physical intervention of Brass arriving for work that had prevented the two men from going for each other's jugular; as it was, Brass had to literally drag Grissom into the building.  
  
"That was dumb Gil, what are you, six?"  
  
"Don't blame me Jim, he started it".  
  
"Sorry, make that five. Look Gil, he's not that bad, you just don't get on, you know that, so why tempt fate? Anyway, what was the problem this time". Brass spoke with the long-suffering air of someone whom had heard chapter and verse on the numerous imperfections and faults of the Day Shift head.  
  
"He was blaming me for the lab-tech shortage".  
  
"And your response was to." Brass' voice was gently encouraging.  
  
Grissom had the grace to look embarrassed. "ummmmmm. blame him for dumping his work on us".  
  
"I definitely gave you the benefit of the doubt when I suggested that you were acting like a five year old, didn't I?". The question was clearly rhetorical. "So what's the solution Gil?"  
  
"We need Greg back. But after last night's performance that's less than likely".  
  
"So I heard".  
  
"What precisely did you hear?" Grissom's words were clipped, agitated in fact and Brass made a mental note not to say who had filled him in on the previous evening's events; they had enough murders to worry about at present without having to deal with one at home.  
  
"Let's just say that reports of last night's performance made the display in the car park look like the epitome of mature restraint. I'll see you later Gil, I've got things to do". Then, in response to Grissom's unspoken question, Brass continued, "Do you remember a few weeks back when I had those bodies turning up in the cemetery? Well they're back, only this time whomever is doing it is leaving the bodies and taking the headstones; it's like a bloody swap meet".  
  
"I'll let you know if someone tries to sell me a headstone".  
  
"Thanks Grissom". Irony tinged the captains voice, then turning serious he continued Look, things will get better, it's not like they can get any worse".  
  
It was only later that Brass learnt how wrong he was.  
  
****************** SOMEWHERE ELSE ****************** Order is often a random thing; arbitrarily assigned by those who cannot make sense of what they see around them, thus they apply their own understanding, their own sense, and their own worldview. It is common in religion, where ignorant men preach on the shortcomings of others in order to ameliorate their own failings. It is the raison d'etre of politics where opposing viewpoints fight to demonstrate hitherto undreamt of levels of incompetence; and then there are those who take it further.  
  
It was a grey room, dimly lit and distinguished only by the books, which crowded the walls. The books, if one had cared to make a closer examination, were predominantly Of two types: Shakespeare and authors of a similar ilk and texts of an apocalyptic nature.  
  
The sole exception to the wall of books was a small television perched precariously on a coffee table in a corner of the room. Always on, the television set blared with the latest in news; it appeared that the four horsemen had been busy this day and they'd seemingly acquired reinforcements; possibly a work-experience programme for some of the lesser evils.  
  
The last segment finished and the female presenter reappeared on screen and began to relate the next riveting item, the inevitable human-interest story about a dumb animal and an even dumber child.  
  
"Pointless trash" snarled the watcher "a pointed argument for pre-natal euthanasia". The sudden anger was expressed in the lashing out of a foot, which sent the collected detritus of empty pill bottles and other containers ricocheting around the room. With the anger came a change in the watcher's demeanour. The remote fell to the floor ignored and the room darkened - at least in the perception of the watcher - and a voice, different than before was heard; or maybe just imagined  
  
"The crusade shall renew. Only by the hand of the servant shall it come to pass and only from the hand of the servant shall it be delivered and in that delivery shall all things begin and all things shall end".  
  
The watcher shuddered and lay still, and in the background the television continued its pointless narration. 


	9. Hamsters of the Apocalypse

I'd like to take this opportunity to thank my beta readers, Michmak and Emily for putting up with my flights of fantasy and I'd especially like to thank Michmak for convincing me that there is someone out there who wants to read this.  
  
For those of you who have been loyally following this, thank you, and I apologise for the delay. Things have been somewhat hectic here in the last month and when you realise that I have no discipline it rather explains the delay. I'll try to do better.  
  
Finally: This chapter is dedicated to the memory of mine and my partner's beloved little cat, Ahli, who was killed by a car a few weeks ago - this one's for you little guy.  
  
  
  
Hamsters of the Apocalypse:  
  
Show my heart some devotion  
  
Push aside those that whisper never  
  
Feel like a child on a dark night  
  
Wishing there were some kind of heaven  
  
I could be warm with you smiling  
  
Hold out your hand for a while  
  
The victims we know them so well, so well...  
  
Culture Club: Victims  
  
  
  
Someone take these dreams away  
  
That point me to another day  
  
A duel of personalities  
  
That stretch all true reality  
  
That keep calling me - they keep calling me  
  
Keep on calling me - they keep calling me Joy Division: Dead Souls  
  
  
  
Some people believe that the full moon causes people to act differently, as if the moon calls to a more primitive part of the human psyche. Certainly, myth and legend are replete with tales of the moon's effects; be it through the tale of the werewolf, in the summoning of the unicorn, or in pointing to the behaviours of family pets. Then again, there are those who simply view the moon as a pretty ball in the sky providing a picturesque backdrop for a romantic walk; and then there are those who ignore the moon altogether so intent are they on their purpose that all else ceases to have meaning, or indeed exist.  
  
The street was secluded, a cul-de-sac some distance from the main road. It was, judging by the size and appearance of the houses, a well-to-do area; affluent, and considering the almost pathological attention to order, somewhat conservative. The only light came from the moon as the local residents had opposed a council initiative to install street-lighting, arguing that the man-made luminescence would adversely affect their sleep. The council, as is usually the case when faced with money and influence, backed down with the ostensible result being that all were happy: the residents, the councillors who lined their pockets and the local predators who no longer had to suffer their every move being lit from above. In fact, the lack of light was something that a visiting predator had come to rely on.  
  
The Watcher had been observing this area for several weeks, noting movements, determining targets, choosing their strike with care. Failure was not an option that could be considered, for only success eased the pain and the murmurings in the silence of their mind. With all care the sacrifice was selected: a young woman whose husband was often away on business, with a house, shrouded in ancient elms and oaks, well back from the street. As evening fell and the shadows merged into darkness The Watcher prepared and the tension of waiting segued into the excitement of the hunt and the release it would bring. Darkness itself was not enough and The Watcher stilled themself as the sounds of early evening echoed throughout the neighbourhood; families laughed over dinner, couples recounted their day and children screamed and laughed as they played then tried to avoid the inevitable when they were sent to bed. Finally, silence followed darkness and The Watcher emerged.  
  
Moving from where they had lain for the better part of the afternoon, The Watcher checked that everything was in place. Even in summer, they chose their clothing with care; the jacket was long and bulky with a deeply recessed hood and the hands gloved. Not only was the jacket long, but it also contained many pockets and within held the tools of the trade.  
  
Moving assuredly, yet keeping to the shadows, they approached their target, the only sound being the barking of a dog a few houses over. Turning into the drive they saw to their satisfaction that the lights were still on; it was much easier going in through the front door, invited if you will, it left less evidence. The barking of the dog was much louder now and suddenly it burst through the bushes, barked madly then galloped off. About to return to their task, the soft slapping of sneakers on asphalt rapidly approaching stayed their progress. A teenager, male, no older than twelve, paused;  
  
"He mister, did you see my dog?"  
  
The Watcher raised their arm slightly and gestured in the direction the dog had gone.  
  
"Thanks mister," and the child was gone.  
  
Pausing for a moment to ensure that there were no more incipient interruptions, The Watcher trod with ordained certainty towards the front door. The door was set back in an alcove, which was designed to provide the occupants and their a degree of privacy, but in this instance only provided The Watcher greater freedom to act.  
  
A deep breath and a tension-relieving shake of the hands preceded a sharp rap on the door to initiate the evening's festivities. After waiting a few minutes, the echo of footsteps on a wooden floor drew close, followed in turn by the rattle of keys in a dead bolt, finally the door opened to the extent of the security chain. Solemn grey-green eyes regarded The Watcher passively.  
  
"Yes?" was the softly spoken query.  
  
"I'm sorry to bother you at this hour ma'am, but I was wondering if you'd be interested in supporting the local literary society? We're running our book drive for charity this week and are currently looking for donations of books."  
  
The voice of the person at the door was quietly compelling, with a subtle, gravely undertone and for a second the woman looked like she would open the door, then distracted by a sound coming from behind her, her expression tightened and she shook her head. "No thank you, I'm afraid I can't help. Good evening to you." Moving to close the door, the woman paused as what appeared to be a severe coughing spasm struck the visitor. "Are you alright?" she inquired.  
  
From their bent-over position the figure could be heard to murmur that everything would be fine; the woman at the door having not seen the subtle transference from pocket to hand of a small wooden pipe. Straightening, the figure looked squarely at the woman, and on clearly sighting the visage for the first time, she drew back. That was all the invitation The Watcher needed and with a deft movement to their lips and a sharp exhalation of air a dart lodged in the woman's throat.  
  
"What have you done!?" was the startled cry, which faded to a whispered "Why?" as she slid bonelessly to the floor, eyes wide with a terrified certainty of what was to come.  
  
Moving quickly, The Watcher slid their hand around the door and unfastened the security chain, seconds later they entered the door closing with an ominous finality behind them. Knowing they only had a few minutes before the woman succumbed to oxygen deprivation and the inevitable brain death that followed The Watcher moved quickly. It was essential that the woman was conscious and aware, otherwise he may as well kill her now and not bother with the effort; attention to detail was everything and the payoff was in doing it right the first time. Slipping on a pair of latex gloves, The Watcher efficiently laid out the tools they had carried and it became evident why the jacket contained so many pockets as short of a portable iron maiden the display looked like the contents of the advanced torturers catalogue had been deposited on the coffee table.  
  
Grabbing a small oxygen bottle and mask he bent over his victim and briefly resuscitated her, when he saw awareness flicker in her frightened eyes he grasped her arms and dragged her to the wall farthest from the door. Returning to the table, The Watcher paused savouring the ecstasy of the rush that such control imparted before grabbing the next tools in their gruesome trade and attached them to the work belt he wore.  
  
Ever practical, The Watcher ran a stud-finder over the wall and located the appropriate position to mount their trophy, before again checking the woman carefully and deciding that a judicious application of oxygen was appropriate if the entertainment was to continue. Applying the mask to her face, he watched for the spark that indicated a functioning mind or at least a mind capable of terror; checking his watch he calmly noted that time was passing.  
  
Dragging a couple of chairs from an adjoining room he placed the woman on one and stood on the other then, grasping the woman by the hair, he dragged her to a semi-standing position and took her arm. Stretching the arm as high as he could, he took the nail gun he had attached to his work belt and stapled her arm to the wall through the wrist making sure the nails went into the stud he had located earlier. Moving his chair to the other side of his victim The Watcher took her other arm and repeated the process, essentially crucifying her; even through the effects of the toxin the pain was excruciating and the agony she was suffering resonated in her eyes.  
  
Again, he chose to resuscitate the woman before taking a sharp knife from his belt and stripping the clothes from her upper body. If he had held any prurient interest he would have paused to admire the lush curve of her breasts through to the gentle swell of her stomach and gentle flaring of her hips, instead he took his knife to her abdomen in order to present his latest message; no more Shakespeare, time for something different. For the woman, pain was taken to a new, exquisite level, as the knife etched its bloody message.  
  
Standing back to review his handiwork, he regarded his victim. "You know why this must be, don't you? There is no other way. They must not come. I honour your sacrifice," and taking the knife he raised it ceremonially to his lips in salute then in one quick motion slashed the woman deeply across the throat. The violently severed arteries sprayed crimson gouts of blood across the carpet and The Watcher knelt to one side head bowed as if in prayer. He was roused from his reverie by a sound that came from behind him and one uttered word changed the evening.  
  
"Mummy."  
  
The child could have been no older than three, a blond moppet with a co- starring role with the obnoxious twins from Full House written into his stars.  
  
"Child, you should not be here. This is not your place, it is not ordained that you should be present."  
  
The child looked quizzically at the stranger standing in his house. "Are you a friend of my mummy?"  
  
"No, she was merely helping me with something. Now please, return to your bed."  
  
  
  
************** Two Hours Later **************  
  
The flashing lights and the wail of sirens illuminated the suburban street that had just hours before been Norman Rockwell HQ.  
  
Jim Brass stood at the door to the house and waited patiently for the CSI ensemble to arrive; god knows everyone else and their dog was either here, or had been here and left. Foremost amongst them - at least in terms of impassioned rhetoric - the sheriff, the mayor's assistant and a particularly annoying FBI representative who blathered about 'conjoint operations' and 'civic interest' causing Brass to wonder if such agents were cloned, so close was he in composition to the arsehole that had headed up the ubiquitous 'Strip Strangler' case several years ago.  
  
Then there was the press, who to a man and an over-peroxided woman, had been virtually beaten back with sticks, so rabid were they in their attempts to interview the corpse and to lick the blood from the carpets in the 'interests of their listeners'. That last comment had had Brass subconsciously reaching for his gun and only his lieutenant had heard and raised an eyebrow at the sotto voce comment about 'just this once', which was fortunately circumscribed by the arrival of Grissom and his band of grumpy scientists.  
  
"Looks like we're getting closer Jim."  
  
"Not really, we just caught a lucky break, the husband's an airline pilot, he just flew in from Europe; obviously our friend with the knives didn't check the arrivals lounge before coming over."  
  
"Well that's good, some fresh evidence might just help us break the case open."  
  
Brass looked abashed, "Errrr Gil, we had to move some of the 'evidence'."  
  
Grissom's voice headed into the ultrasonic, "You did what?" Even the normally imperturbable Warrick looked pissed.  
  
"It wasn't like we had a lot of choice, the victim was still alive."  
  
"Will we be able to question them?"  
  
"Well...maybe." Brass paused, "Brace yourself folks, this is where it gets nasty. There were two victims this time, the mother, who is dead like the others, and her son, who is four. Whoever did this, let the kid live, but not before, they crucified him and ripped his tongue out. They did leave a message though," Brass pointed through the open door to where, clearly emblazoned beneath where the second body had been positioned were the words 'In nomine patri mea culpa'.  
  
"Where's the child now?" asked Sara, the professionalism of her tone failing to hide the ghostly pallor which made her eyes stand out in stark contrast to her skin.  
  
"Emergency surgery, our friend with the knives was kind enough to leave the tongue nailed to the wall beside the body."  
  
"Not a trophy then," murmured Grissom.  
  
"What's that Gil?"  
  
"A lot of serial killers like to take things from their victims, something to play with after the fact; gives them a chance to relive the moment. In sexually related crimes, it's the equivalent of a marital aid, yet I don't think this is the case here, instead our friend is leaving a simple message, he didn't want to hurt the child, but couldn't take the risk of him talking."  
  
"And you call what he did 'not hurting' the child, Grissom you need to go back to definition school."  
  
Grissom peered over the top of his glasses at Catherine, "Crucifixion or death Cath, take your pick." Turning his attention back to Brass, Grissom inquired as to the husband's state of mind.  
  
"Well he won't be visiting planet coherence anytime soon if you're thinking of questioning him; you'll also be overjoyed to hear that he made a complete mess of the scene..." Raising his voice over the discontented mutterings of the CSI's, Brass continued, "...which is hardly surprising given the situation. He found his wife and child nailed to the wall, you expect him to tape the area off and call the police?"  
  
"Well it would be ni...", Nick was abruptly silenced by the simultaneous application of Sara's elbow to his mid-section and Warrick's hand to the back of his head. Grissom, however, had moved on, stepping across the threshold and pausing to survey the carnage in greater depth. The panicked footprints and the bloody mark of a person's palm gave clear indication of the husband's frenzied reaction when he discovered the scene.  
  
"Any message on the body Jim?"  
  
"Yep, usual code," he consulted his notebook, "TJoM:2" he read; "not Shakespeare this time, we checked, seems like homicide are carrying the collected works as part of their standard issue."  
  
"Any ideas?"  
  
"We haven't had a chance to review the entire literary canon but we'll run it past the universities in the morning and see if the experts can help; knowing our friend it will no doubt be an edifying piece of prose."  
  
"I'll do it if you like Jim, I've got to visit the entomology department anyway, so a trip to the university won't be out of my way."  
  
"OK Grissom, thanks. I've gotta go marshal the troops, I'll see you back home."  
  
The head CSI turned back to his team. "OK guys, we know the scene is pretty much a bust but do what you can. Cath, there's not a lot of point doing blood splatter since the husband has tracked it everywhere, can you help Warrick with fibres? Nick, you've got the outside. Sara, you can play Jimmy Olsen. Questions? No? Right, get to it."  
  
It didn't take long to establish that this evening's carnage was just like the killer's previous efforts; no fibres, no prints, not even an autographed photograph.  
  
"You know Catherine, I reckon this guy must be a maid when he's not killing people, if it wasn't for all the blood I'd swear he was shampooing the carpet before he left. What do you think, you reckon we can do a handwriting analysis on the message he left?"  
  
"Warrick, it looks like he's been practising kanji with a power sprayer and somehow I don't think 'bloody scrawl' is covered in the user manual, although it might turn up in the psych listings under parental conflict issues."  
  
"So you reckon he's pissed at his parents?"  
  
"Well he's certainly pissed at someone."  
  
"We collecting a blood sample? We got here pretty quick this time so something should show up on a tox screen."  
  
"Dunno, I'll ask. Hey Grissom," called Catherine without looking up from what she was doing, "We collecting a take-home?"  
  
Glancing up from his conversation with Nick, who'd returned from his sweep of the grounds, Grissom looked blankly at Catherine who didn't notice his regard until Warrick tapped her with the side of his boot. When she indicated the blood, he nodded, the came over, Nick in tow. "Who's on shift tonight?"  
  
"In the lab? Vincent I think, he got called back from holiday, so don't expect any favours."  
  
Grissom looked vaguely annoyed, "I'll settle for competence, Vincent's not Greg, but he's not completely useless."  
  
"That's on a relative scale of course."  
  
"Do you want to check the outside of the house again Nick?"  
  
"No, that's OK Grissom, thanks though. Are we done here? Sara's already left with Brass and I'm finished, how about you two?"  
  
The two CSI's shrugged and looked at their boss. Indicating his assent, they repacked their kits and headed back to base where a fun night of futile swearing and cursing awaited them.  
  
  
  
*************** ACROSS TOWN ***************  
  
There is something about a pool hall that immediately screams low-rent; perhaps it's the associations of years gone by, of fat men in braces, carefully placing their beer on the side of the table and peering through the acrid haze of cigarette smoke to determine not only their next shot, but precisely which of the myriad balls in front of them is white, and thus by a process of elimination, the cue ball. As times changed and the pools halls were overrun by the glitz of bright lights and trendy cocktails, there was still the feeling of stepping back into a bygone age of illicit liquor and ubiquitous monikers and where sex was still sex and not an advertisement for the abilities of your plastic surgeon.  
  
The place where Rilie had taken Greg was somewhat of an amalgam between the old and the new; the room was spacious and well lit, but apparently uninhabited by the cologne and cleavage set, instead having the feel of a private retreat for old friends. Indicating with a jerk of her head that Greg should follow, Rilie made her way to the bar, which was located in the centre of the room. The bartender, a giant of a man glowered menacingly in their direction as they approached.  
  
"Are you sure this is a good idea Rilie, he doesn't look very friendly." Waving away Greg's concerns, Rilie stepped up to the bar and grabbed the giant by the front of his shirt.  
  
"Enough with the menacing act, Uncle Mike, he's OK; a little strange, but OK. Greg? C'mere and meet my uncle." Greg tentatively approached the bar and warily extended a hand any moment expecting to have it ripped off and handed back to him.  
  
Rilie grinned; "Greg Sanders, this is Mike Andrews, my dad's kid brother."  
  
"Just how big is your dad Rilie?" Further questions were curtailed as the giant turned Greg's hand to a flesh-coloured paste.  
  
"He's about four inches taller than me, standing on a box that is. Good to meet you Greg; make sure you treat her well. Rilie, the others are out back."  
  
"Thanks Mike. C'mon Greg, this way," indicating a door at the back of the hall.  
  
Almost jogging to keep up, Greg uttered the first thing that crossed his mind. "What did he mean, 'treat her well'? It's not like we're dating or anything."  
  
"To my uncle's mind, you're male, you're with me, therefore you treat me well...or else."  
  
"Gee, I bet you get plenty of long term boyfriends."  
  
"Well, none that survived" and although said with a cynical smirk there was no disguising the wistfulness of Rilie' tone.  
  
"So what's the deal, you don't seem very happy about this?"  
  
"It's not a matter of not being happy it's a matter of having four older brothers and a father and his brothers and their sons. I'm the only girl on my father's side of the family, at times I feel like I'm Fort Knox, except more closely guarded."  
  
"Remind me to keep my hands to myself then." This only elicited a raised eyebrow, so Greg continued on to the indicated door and thus missed Rilie's quiet "just once, I wish someone wouldn't..."  
  
  
  
***************** BACK AT THE LAB ******************  
  
Vincent was not a happy man; actually there was a picture of Vincent beside the definition of unhappy in the dictionary. Of course, this choice of definition was due only to the fact that people like Vincent only owned 'nice' dictionaries where more apt definitions had been studiously excised by those of a higher moral compass than the average reader who since the age of seven had used the dictionary only to enhance their knowledge of rude words and synonyms for the interesting parts of their anatomy.  
  
Pissed-off would have been closer.  
  
Homicidally enraged would have been more accurate.  
  
But 'not happy' would have to do.  
  
Vincent was especially unhappy because he had been called back from holiday, a holiday where, after putting in hours of spadework and alcoholic largesse, he had been about to score with a particularly scrumptious divorcee with a huge chest and an even bigger bank balance. Vincent was at an age where he no longer believed in the idealistic things in life like love, now, it was comfort all the way baby. Vincent was honest enough to admit that his idealism had been sacrificed in the service of justice, or the law, which was close enough.The daily grind of processing a never ending supply of human detritus had eventually - and inevitably, if you believed Vincent - soured him towards humanity in general.  
  
Department scuttlebutt told a different story; a story named Sanders. Before the arrival of Greg, Vincent had been top dog; for there was no doubting that Vincent was good in the lab. He wasn't, however, Greg. In Greg's first week, Vincent had tried to play the heavy, imposing his authority, his experience, his droit de seigner over the lab and its environs. Greg had taken this in his stride for about a minute and a half, turned on his stereo and proceeded to drown Vincent out with the poetic tones of The Clash. Taken aback, Vincent had wanted to retaliate, but ingrained wisdom told him to await the inevitable arrival of Thunderstorm Grissom, who was well known for his dislike of loud noise and chaos. True to predictions, Grissom materialised in the lab in under a minute and turned the music off with such force that only Greg's quick reactions prevented the stereo unit from tumbling off the desk.  
  
"What the hell is that racket?" Vincent sat back, a satisfied smile on his face.  
  
"Music," was the calm response "Why?"  
  
"You can't work with that on, turn it off."  
  
"Which work is that? The six DNA reports and the five anomalous fibre samples?"  
  
"That's right, I expect them done by the end of the shift."  
  
Greg picked up the pile of notes sitting in his out tray, "There you are then."  
  
Grissom was gobsmacked. "What do you mean 'there you are'? You only got these a couple of hours ago."  
  
"I could take longer if you like."  
  
Grissom was tempted to respond to the slightly sarcastic edge in Greg's tone, but settled for warning Greg that the reports better be correct, or else.  
  
Of course, much to Vincent's chagrin, the reports were not only correct but the level of cross correlation Greg had produced saved the team about a weeks worth of slog. Thereafter, the only acceptable speed was Greg speed, which, unless you happened to wear red underwear outside of your clothes, just wasn't possible. From that point on in Vincent's mind, nothing he ever did was good enough; it was, but that wasn't the point, he, Vincent, wasn't Greg, and it gnawed at him until its bitter juice poisoned him towards the world at large.  
  
Now, even with Sanders gone, every other lab tech was expected to perform at the same levels he had done. Now, the shift heads wondered why they couldn't keep new techs and the answer, to Vincent, was obvious. They wanted Sanders, and if the new techs couldn't be Sanders, then they weren't good enough. Vincent smiled cynically, at present working at the lab was like finding a lover whose previous partner was a cross between John Holmes and the Energiser Bunny - no matter how hard you tried you couldn't measure up. The damn Shakespeare killer was a case in point, Sander's, while not even officially working there, had opened up a whole new avenue of investigation, told Grissom to go fuck himself, then left the other techs to pick up the pieces.  
  
Vincent, at the very least would have settled for telling Grissom to go fuck himself, but for the moment was too busy playing 'Guess that Neurotoxin'.  
  
  
  
  
  
*************************** UNIVERSITY THE NEXT DAY ***************************  
  
Coffee, blessed coffee, was Greg's only thought as he sat in the campus café.  
  
The previous evening had been fun despite the fact that Rilie had given him a serious lesson in how to play pool; fortunately, he was competitive enough to retain some small measure of dignity - and his trousers. In addition, Rilie's friends were, while not a revelation, a pleasant surprise, at least in their ability to be completely humiliated at the pool table. So, together in their inept misery they plotted their revenge, spiked her drinks and eventually wiped the floor with her - although by that point in time Rilie was so drunk that it took two of them to hold her up while she took a shot.  
  
The university café had become a haven for Greg, at least inasmuch as it was the only place on campus that served something that actually resembled coffee, it also gave him somewhere to come when he wasn't involved with classes. Sometimes he just sat and watched the antics of the undergraduates and wondered if he had ever been so young: 'young' being a polite substitution for ignorant. Generally though, he just came to read the paper and avail himself of the coffee, which was generally refilled free of charge by the staff who had come to regard him as a regular.  
  
He was halfway through his second mug of the morning when a familiar voice interrupted his contemplation of the latest antics of the Shakespeare Killer. The reporter in question - who had obviously been seconded from the tabloid section - was waxing lyrical about the latest homicide. While concerned at the latest turn of events, Greg, was also bemused at the article, which was written in such a way that he half expected to find a sub-heading titled "Diet Secrets of the Shakespeare Killer."  
  
Turning his attention from the article, Greg was surprised to find that the familiar voice didn't belong to the expected Rilie, but was a very obviously surprised Gil Grissom.  
  
"Grissom...good morning" Greg's tone was, to say the least, wary.  
  
"Hello Greg. What are you...I mean...I didn't expect..what a surprise." He finished lamely.  
  
Despite the pleasure he took from watching Grissom flounder, Greg decided to throw him a lifeline. "I'm studying, Grissom." Grissom's puzzled expression made Greg wonder what he'd said for a second before realising that his former boss was interpreting what he'd said too literally, "I meant the university, Grissom, not the café."  
  
"Yes, of course, I knew that." Grissom paused, seeming to steel himself for something unpleasant, "Look...Greg, I...er...I want to apologise for what I said the other night. I was wrrrrr..wrrrr", the head CSI appeared to choke on the word.  
  
"You were what? Sorry Grissom, I didn't catch that."  
  
"I was....wrong" the last word spat from his mouth like an unpleasant aftertaste.  
  
Greg, having never heard the word 'wrong' uttered by Grissom in living memory nearly fell off his chair in shock; so shocked in fact that he failed to ask if Grissom was ill.  
  
"Also, Greg", here it comes, Greg thought, the other shoe " I was wondering whether you could see your way clear to doing some additional work for us."  
  
"Grissom, I'm studying. Classes are held during the day, which means at night I'll be sleeping, I don't function on a twenty-four hour basis, I am, contrary to popular opinion, human."  
  
"Obviously. Would you be open to a few hours in the evening and if possible a few in the morning before classes?" Reading the former lab tech's scepticism correctly, Grissom continued, "We'll pay of course."  
  
Instantly intent, Greg inquired precisely how much said remuneration would entail and Grissom was about to answer when a bleary-eyed, blond haystack interrupted him.  
  
"Coffee! Now!" was articulately grunted in Greg's direction.  
  
"Yes ma'am"  
  
"You", this in Grissom's direction, "Move."  
  
Grissom was about to protest when a warning shake from the returning Greg silenced him. "Don't do it Grissom, I don't want to have to scrape you off the walls."  
  
"Grissom? I've heard of you" snarled the haystack before Greg distracted it by waving coffee in range of its sensors.  
  
Grissom, in the process of moving, glanced at Greg questioningly and received a guilty shrug in return, an action that was noted, categorised and filed away for later consideration.  
  
"Grissom, may I introduce Rilie Andrews, Rilie's also completing her Master's degree in composition. Rilie, this is my former boss, Gil Grissom."  
  
"Pleeztameetcha"  
  
"Likewise, Ms Andrews. Composition? You're studying composition, Greg?."  
  
"That's right Grissom. Musical composition no less."  
  
"Thank you Greg, I worked that out all by myself.'  
  
"Well done then. Anyway Grissom, why are you up here, the university isn't normally part of your territory."  
  
"I told Jim Brass that I'd pop into the English department for him since I was visiting the entomology department anyway; I'm doing some research for them on Terpsichorean Choreographic Fertility rituals."  
  
"Huh?"  
  
"Mating rituals" supplied the haystack.  
  
"That's right" acceded Grissom, glancing curiously at Rilie.  
  
"Don't mind her, she's like that: informative but weird. Anyway, what's up with the English department?"  
  
"Everybody's favourite psycho left us another message, this one's not Shakespeare though, so we're trying to save a bit of time by consulting the experts."  
  
"Same code thing?"  
  
Grissom nodded and searched through his pockets for the scrap of paper with the message on it, finding it, he took it out to show Greg. "TJoM:2? What's that?"  
  
"Well Greg, that's why I'm here."  
  
"It's from Christopher Marlowe" groaned the haystack. Further explanation was halted by a pitiful moan from Rilie as she adopted a position more indicative of her status amongst the vertebrates. "The Jew of Malta, Act Two to be precise, and if my memory serves me there's only one quote from that act that even comes close to fitting the bill, at least in terms of presenting a message." Rilie gazed at the ceiling as she dredged her memory, eventually finding the exact words she recited: "Now will I show myself to have more of the serpent than the dove; that is, more knave than fool."  
  
Grissom glanced worriedly at Greg, "Looks like it's going to get worse." 


	10. Interview with a Tarantula

Well here we are again, another month, another chapter: GO ME. [It would be really nice if someone reviewed it this time other than my betas [/cynicism]. Seriously, more reviews would be great my muse is considering strike action.  
  
I would like to thank my Betas:  
  
Mich "but Grissom wouldn't say that wait for season three, oh you're in New Zealand" mak  
  
&  
  
Emily "Death to the semi-colon"  
  
Anyway, on with the show  
  
  
  
  
  
INTERVIEW WITH A TARANTULA  
  
Don't your feet get cold in the winter time?  
  
The sky won't snow and the sun won't shine  
  
It's hard to tell the night time from the day  
  
You're loosin' all your highs and lows  
  
Ain't it funny how the feeling goes away?  
  
Desperado - The Eagles  
  
  
  
We wake alone in the blackness  
  
We sleep wherever we fall  
  
One dream all around us  
  
This big hush infects us all Shriekback - This Big Hush  
  
**************  
  
"You have failed us."  
  
"No master."  
  
"The child lives."  
  
"His death was not required, you asked only for the woman."  
  
"He saw us, that cannot be allowed. You will return to him and finish."  
  
"But the child is in the hospital, under guard, there is no way."  
  
"You will find a way. You are chosen to serve, do so."  
  
"Your will, Master."  
  
"There are others who call to us, they too must be released; they must join."  
  
"How many more Master? It is pain; release me."  
  
"Your pain is irrelevant."  
  
***********  
  
"So how do you know all that stuff? The obvious answer is that you're a weirdo, but since that's a given I'm going to ask for further illumination; and next time we play Trivial Pursuit, you're on my team."  
  
"Gee thanks for the compliment Sanders. I don't know everything, it just appears that way because you're so bloody ignorant. Now I'll take this slowly for you so you don't get confused. You have a double degree in music and chemistry, correct? Well I have a double degree in music and English literature."  
  
"So what you're telling me Andrews, is that actually you're no bloody use at all?"  
  
"Not in comparison to you moron."  
  
Grissom had left about half an hour ago and Rilie and Greg were sitting companionably in the café attempting to drink enough coffee to poison a small village. Both had decided to ditch class, Rilie, because she wasn't in any sort of condition to pretend attentiveness, and Greg, because Mueller was on the rampage again and he wasn't in the mood to have himself disembowelled over Mueller's hatred of compositions in the minor keys. Both also had ulterior motives that would have seen the pair of them in their respective graves before admitting to the other what they were thinking.  
  
'So tell me Sanders, what's the deal with this Shakespeare Killer, I only know what I read in the paper, which at best is illiterate sensationalism."  
  
"What do you want to know? It doesn't get any more difficult than that the person's a high grade nutter, and a dangerous one at that."  
  
"Well obviously he's dangerous, he's killed quite a few people, I want to know the inside stuff, what do your former mob think is happening here?"  
  
Greg groaned, "You know that stuff is restricted Rilie, that's why the police are investigating it and not you. If you were investigating the murders then I imagine you would have been informed of the latest developments."  
  
"So you think that I'd go and announce my new-found knowledge to the world at large?"  
  
"No, actually I don't, but that's not the point. Can we change the subject here? I don't want to be rude Rilie, but we're fast approaching a line I won't cross."  
  
Never let it be said that Rilie Andrews was stupid, recognising that Greg was being very serious - which frankly scared her having never previously observed this phenomenon - she decided to let it lie; for the moment anyway. Changing tack, Rilie decided that if she couldn't get information she could at least wind Greg up.  
  
"By the way Sanders, Cassidy thinks you're a bit of a hottie, she was most impressed with your form when leaning over a pool table."  
  
Greg's eyes lit up. "Really? Excellent! Do you have her number, Rilie?"  
  
That was NOT supposed to happen. He was supposed to turn red, stammer and display his stunning propensity to be socially clueless. Dammit, Greg was hers. Scratch that, she thought; since when did I start thinking he was mine, he's vaguely amusing, in a Daliesque way, but he's not boyfriend material...especially not Cassidy boyfriend material.  
  
"Sorry Greg, not on me, you think she's cute or something?" Say yes and die Sanders.  
  
"Oh yes" - his mind flicked back to the previous evening and the clinging black dress Cassidy was wearing - "but it's more than that, we had a good talk last night and we have a lot in common."  
  
"Like what?"  
  
"Well for a start, her degree's in biophysics so there's the whole science thing. Her family's also from the same area as mine, so we had a laugh about Las Vegas' inherent inferiority to our home town."  
  
"Well we agree on that anyway. So you didn't spend all your time staring at her breasts like you did with me then?"  
  
"I did not stare at your breasts!" Greg was indignant.  
  
"So there's something wrong with them is there?"  
  
"No. You've got great...oh shit..."  
  
"Would you care to rephrase that while you still have your health?" Now this was more like it, thought Rilie, hours of entertainment for the entire family.  
  
***********  
  
**CUE MUSIC**  
  
"And welcome back to P.R.A.T. News Television, I'm Nelly Lucid, and tonight we go in depth with the profilers, those behavioural scientists who devote themselves to the study of serial killers. Tonight, with me in the studio, is Dr Hahghem Hai who will be explaining the process by which a serial killer is profiled, and to illustrate this process we'll focus on Las Vegas', Shakespeare Killer; good evening doctor."  
  
'Good evening Nelly. Before we start, I'd like to correct a common misapprehension. A profiler doesn't solely deal with serial killers, although those criminals that fit that particular typology are what our work is most well known for. We provide behavioural profiling for all types of criminals. Largely, our work is based on certain behavioural probabilities and as such can be applied to most forms of criminal behaviour. Serial killers are the most well known subjects of the science for the simple reason that their crimes are the most..." and here the doctor paused while he sought a diplomatic synonym for sensationalised, given that he was being interviewed by a representative of said group of sensationalists "...Likely to generate public interest."  
  
"OK then, so what does a profile allow you to do? Can you accurately identify a criminal based on a profile constructed from the clues and evidence collected from a crime scene?"  
  
"Not really, that is, we can't accurately identify an individual based on a profile, if that was the case a lot of criminals would be arrested at their front door. As I said before, profiling is about probabilities; it allows us to narrow down the options of potential perpetrators. For example, it is common for serial killers to murder members of their own race, so, if a Caucasian female is murdered, a primary supposition is that the killer is, themselves, Caucasoid." Similarly, certain actions against the victims can be indicative of past events in the criminal's life that may, and I stress the may, have triggered the chain of future actions."  
  
"Can you give me any examples of that doctor?" The interviewer seemed subdued. However, it was difficult to determine whether this was from considering the import of her guest's words or, and this was more likely, due to the obvious fact that the doctor did not, in any shape or form, fit the criteria of a 'tabloid' guest. So much for blood and guts.  
  
The doctor paused for a moment, considering, before he replied. "OK. Take Edmund Kemper. Now Kemper, while admittedly having psychological problems, sited his killing of co-eds as a response to the treatment he received from his abusive mother, who constantly told him that those were the type of girls that would never be interested in him; So, in part, Edmund's victims represented possession of that thing he was always told he'd never have."  
  
"So what you're saying is that past events may be a trigger?"  
  
"Certainly, but not necessarily. There have been examples of people who have lead perfectly normal lives up until the point at which some trauma completely changed them, this trauma may be psychological or physical; it is, for example, startlingly common for serial killers to have suffered, at some time, a head injury of some sort."  
  
"Thank you doctor, we'll be right back after these messages"  
  
Nelly was beginning to get frustrated, her interview was beginning to resemble an undergraduate lecture in sicko-psychology and her guest seemed quite content to assume the position of pedagogue.  
  
For his part, the Doctor was well aware of what was going through the presenter's alleged mind; he was, however, thoroughly sick of the media doing all in its power to raise human aberrances, like serial killers, to celebrity status, and thus this interview was a tailor made soapbox.  
  
**CUE MUSIC**  
  
"Welcome back. Tonight in the studio we have behavioural psychologist and criminal profiler Dr Hahghem Hai. Doctor, I'd like now to turn your attention to the serial killer that has been preying on Las Vegas for the past few years."  
  
"I'm assuming that you're referring to the so-called 'Shakespeare Killer'."  
  
"That's correct."  
  
"The short answer Nelly, is that this killer is a complete mystery. From a behavioural and analytical position their behaviour is so contradictory as to make constructing a profiler extremely difficult."  
  
"When you say contradictory what do you mean?"  
  
"You remember that I said that profiling is sited in the sorting of behavioural probabilities based on collected evidence, the type of victims and so forth. With this particular criminal what little evidence we have collected doesn't allow us to exclude certain possibilities and therefore forming a picture, even a simplified one, is complicated. For example, if someone is in a psychotic state their actions usually lack planning, evidence extreme rage and can be generally summed up as uncontrolled or chaotic. On the other hand, a psychopathic personality is ordered, clinical and almost detached; what we have with this killer is evidence of both personality types as seen in the extremely careful planning and organisation of the crimes on the one hand, yet on the other, the sheer brutality of the actual killings."  
  
"What does this tell us then?"  
  
"Well frankly, it could mean anything. Some criminals in the past have been smart enough, and aware enough of the profiling science, to leave atypical evidence at the crime scene in the hope of leading the police and others astray. Another possibility is that the person in question is suffering from some sort of psychological problem, perhaps schizophrenia or a type of bi-polar disorder, or less likely, multiple personality disorder."  
  
"Why less likely?"  
  
"Less likely, because true multiple personality disorders are extremely rare, although that hasn't stopped certain criminals in the past from claiming to be under the influence of such, for example Kenneth Bianchi, one of the Hillside Stranglers, concocted an alternate personality named 'Steve', in order to avoid conviction by reason of insanity."  
  
"OK then, accepting the degree of contradictory evidence, what conclusions can you draw from the killings that have been linked to this perpetrator?"  
  
"My personal opinion is that we're dealing with a deeply conflicted individual, one who is compelled to commit these heinous acts yet also feels great remorse for their actions. The messages they have left indicate several things. The first, in the context of the message left, is that the killer feels a sense of superiority to those who pursue him. Secondly, however, is that in the messages the killer is trying to provide those chasing him with clues and evidence of their remorse."  
  
"So what's with the choice of Shakespeare?"  
  
"Shakespeare is essentially the soul of the English literary canon and as such has a quote for all occasions, I know if I wanted to leave an obscure message he'd be my first pick; but the choice of Shakespeare may or may not have any relevance, we could just be dealing with someone who likes literature."  
  
Nelly could see her producer in the operations booth making frantic signals to finish the interview, whether this was due to commercial commitments or to the more than obvious fact that the interview was a bust was unknown. Either way, when this was over she was going to go home, get quietly drunk, and then consider the possibilities for a career change, something probably involving a convent. Acknowledging her producer with a small nod she moved to bring the interview to a close.  
  
"Well, that's all we have time for this evening, I'd like to thank my guest Dr Hahghem. Be sure to return next week when we'll be examining the effects of genetic manipulation on gifted children, until then, goodnight."  
  
Breathing an audible and clearly frustrated sigh of relief, Nelly turned to face her guest, "Well thanks for nothing Doctor."  
  
Hai merely looked amused, "Frankly young lady I'd rather humiliate you than provide the slavering millions with something else to chew over. What you people in the media fail to realise is that these events are more than just sound bites they affect lives. For all you know the gentleman with the fondness for quotations may have been watching this evening. Another thing young woman, this killer cares nothing for race, nor gender in their attacks. I would suggest you go home, bolt your door, and consider that perhaps waving the red rag at the bull you can't see is perhaps not the wisest course of action; now, good evening."  
  
  
  
***********  
  
**RRIIIIIIINNNNNNNGGGGG**  
  
"What? No."  
  
**RRIIIIIIINNNNNNNGGGGG**  
  
"Yes. What? Seriously? No."  
  
**RRIIIIIIINNNNNNNGGGGG**  
  
"Which part of no don't you understand?...Ohhh, sorry Martha. Yes, I'll be home on time. Don't forget we have to attend that gala...What do you mean your mother's visiting?"  
  
**KNOCKKNOCKKNOCK**  
  
"Yes Mary?"  
  
"There's a delegation from the Spanish Citizens Association, they want to talk to you about the police persecuting their teenagers."  
  
"Maybe their teenagers should stop committing crimes" was the muttered response.  
  
"What was that Mr Mayor?"  
  
"Nothing..nothing. Do the gentlemen have an appointment?"  
  
"No."  
  
"Well there's a surprise. Make an appointment for them and then make them disappear."  
  
"Yes Mr Mayor. They also asked me to remind you that you're opening their new activity centre next week and that the ceremonial piñata is ready and waiting."  
  
"Do you know what they can do with their piñata Mary?"  
  
"No Mr Mayor, shall I ask them?"  
  
"Just make the appointment Mary."  
  
**RRIIIIIIINNNNNNNGGGGG**  
  
"What? No, this isn't Joe's Pizzeria".  
  
**RRIIIIIIINNNNNNNGGGGG**  
  
The Mayor thought about throwing the telephone out of the window; if his timing was good it would hit the Spanish Citizens Delegation just as they were leaving.  
  
**RRIIIIIIINNNNNNNGGGGG**  
  
"Yes? The chief of police?...Again?...They wrote what?...And we're doing precisely what?...What do you mean 'the usual'? What is 'the usual'? Actually...no, don't tell me, just get Corbin up here within the next ten minutes...I don't care if he's in bloody Brazil with Elvis and Marilyn Monroe, ten minutes."  
  
Waldorf Astoria was a busy man, at least that's what he told everyone; the truth of the matter was that the greater part of his day was spent warding off idiots, social panhandlers and assorted bureaucratic functionaries with an over-inflated opinion of their virtually non-existent importance. When given brief surcease from the human detritus it was his constant trial to endure he made increasingly futile attempts to wade through the morass of red tape that threatened to bury his administration.  
  
Astoria was by trade, an accountant, and as such his administration was run with a meticulous attention to detail or, if you listened to his critics, with a complete lack of imagination. Apolitical by nature, Astoria had entered politics driven by a need to clean up the city. This urge to purge, if you will, came not from any sense of misplaced morality, but through the damage done to his sense of order by past administrations. Chaos was anathema and it was his designated - and self-appointed - role to impose order; be it fiscal or related to the actions of his city's less savoury denizens who imposed disorder - like the Spanish Citizens Delegation.  
  
Now, having imposed some sense of fiscal order on his sprawling metropolis - gotta love those tax revenues from the casinos he thought - that supremely disordered maniac, the Shakespeare Killer, was, with supreme irony, he noted, severely disordering his citizens, it was not to be tolerated. Astoria firmly believed that having been elected on a law and order platform that actions that were neither lawful nor orderly were to be discouraged in the strongest possible terms; possibly with the creation of statute outlawing them.  
  
**KNOCKKNOCKKNOCK**  
  
"If that's not the Chief of Police, Mary, then it better be good."  
  
"Don't call me Mary" was the gruff reply. In all honesty, this was a fair enough request as Corbin Calliope looked about as different from anyone named Mary as was possible to imagine. Standing six foot four and apparently constructed out of reinforced concrete, Corbin looked more like a well-groomed lumberjack than a policeman - although the badge and the uniform tended to give it away.  
  
"What can I do for you this evening Waldorf? Mary indicated that you were most anxious for my company."  
  
"Very funny" replied the mayor sourly. "Have you read the paper?"  
  
"The Tribune?"  
  
Receiving only an abrupt herk of the head by way of acknowledgement, the Chief continued. "Can I surmise that you are somewhat perturbed by the headline?"  
  
" 'Killer Dances on City Hall's Ineptitude', you expect me to be happy about this?"  
  
"It's not particularly flattering" was the laconic response.  
  
"Flattering?!" bellowed Astoria, "Are you trying to be funny? This is appalling; it makes me look like an idiot. How many men do you have on this, Corbin?"  
  
"As many as can be spared"  
  
"Spared? What do you mean, spared?!"  
  
"We don't have enough staff to devote to this and the other crimes that are happening. It's not like the other criminals are taking a holiday while this guy roams the streets; for them this is Christmas."  
  
"Why don't you have enough staff"  
  
"That would be because you cut our budget fifteen percent, you mentioned something about efficiency at the time if I remember correctly."  
  
"Don't you get hissy with me Corbin, this is too important, there are citizens lives at risk here."  
  
"And your job"  
  
That's right, and my jo...watch yourself Corbin, save your petty point scoring for the police bar. If nothing else, we need to get the message out that we're doing something about this, so in light of this, you're going to go speak with this reporter, this...this.."  
  
"Babylon?"  
  
"Yes, Babylon, as in The Whore, thereof. Fix it so she shuts up or at least gives us some good press."  
  
"You want me to organise a hit squad boss?" this was said in a faux nineteen-thirties gangster voice.  
  
"Very funny. Actually, why don't you organise someone else to talk to her, the last thing I need right now is some insensitive clod with no media savvy screwing things up."  
  
"Yes Mr Mayor, I'll get right on it, I know just the person."  
  
*********  
  
It was just after 6PM when Greg turned into the parking lot of the CSI building, he'd thought that he'd pop in to talk to Grissom about the part- time work he had been offered when he'd encountered his former boss at the university that morning. Getting out of his car, he almost immediately run into Jim Brass, who wore the look of the terminally harassed. With the ascension of the new police chief, Calliope - the unctuous Mobley having succumbed to the rare PPE virus several months previous - Brass had found himself back in favour with the powers that be. From an administrative perspective this was excellent, no more red tape battles over mindless ephemera, unfortunately, however, having the backing of the laconic chief meant that Jim could no longer coast by with his primary function being that of conspiring with Grissom to antagonise their boss.  
  
" 'lo Greg, What brings you here?"  
  
  
  
  
  
"Ran into Grissom, he's asked me to do some part time work" Greg grinned mischievously, "I'm going to be a consultant."  
  
  
  
  
  
"Not with me signing the bills you're not."  
  
  
  
  
  
"Oh well, can't hurt to try. Anyway, is Grissom in?"  
  
  
  
  
  
"No." At this, Jim grinned evilly; "he's on media duty, special request of the Mayor.  
  
Personally, I don't think the mayor asked for Grissom specifically, but I do know that Corbin - that's the new chief, Greg - has a twisted sense of humour and he knows how much Grissom hates the media."  
  
  
  
  
  
"How does he know this?"  
  
  
  
  
  
Brass chuckled, "That would be because I told him. I've got to go, someone dug up some corpses at the cemetery again and this time they dressed them in army surplus. The priest thought he was being raided."  
  
Shaking his head at how little things changed, Greg entered the building and wandered down to the break room to see if anyone was around. Finding no- one, he swung by Grissom's office to leave a note and then, just as he was preparing to leave  
  
it began raining CSIs and soon he was surrounded by a pointing, jabbering mob.  
  
Well, not really, but they asked many questions.  
  
Tactful as ever, Sara demanded to know when he was coming back, complaining that Vincent was an ungrateful incompetent; of course this was heard by Vincent passing through on his way to the ballistics lab and he stared daggers at Sara who turned a particularly unflattering shade of purple.  
  
"Way to go Sidle. Please tell us you're coming back Greg, Sara's ready to murder Vincent and it looks like the feeling's mutual."  
  
Greg shrugged "No idea Nick, that's why I'm here. Unfortunately, Grissom's undergoing trial by media at the moment so it will have to be sorted out later."  
  
"But you are coming back?"  
  
"That's the idea Sara, but in a part time capacity only, I told Grissom that it couldn't interfere with what I was currently doing."  
  
"Which is? You still haven't told us what it is you're doing."  
  
"No I haven't have I? Oh well, the suspense is good for you." Just as well I made Grissom's discretion a condition of coming back he thought to himself  
  
Catherine rolled her eyes a Greg's reticence; truth be told, she was glad he was coming back, not only because of the regard in which she held his technical skills, but because she also felt that his particular brand of chaos kept the rest of them losing their minds over the stressful situations they encountered. "So what's the deal Greg?"  
  
"In the mornings before cl...before what I'm doing and then for a few hours after I ...er...finish what I'm doing, so anywhere between five and six hours, although that is severely situation dependant. I made sure that Grissom understood that this would be fitted in around my current schedule. I need to maintain some form of income."  
  
"Aha! So you're not currently working."  
  
"Nick, leave it alone, Greg's said he's not telling, so let it go."  
  
"You spoil all my fun Warrick" replied Nick, pretending to sulk. Warrick merely shook his head in bemused exasperation.  
  
"Look guys, I've got to go, I need to feed Benzine."  
  
"Your car?"  
  
"No, my cat."  
  
"You've got a cat? Poor creature."  
  
"Shut up Nick. We'll see you later Greg, c'mon guys, let's go stuff Nick in the morgue with a soup-y."  
  
Greg grinned as he left; Nick's despairing cries and pleadings following him down the corridor.  
  
**********  
  
For all his faults, there was one thing that Gil Grissom wasn't and that was political. He hated the thought that the scope of his job was essentially run at the whim of a person's morality. Grissom wasn't so naive as to think that he could avoid politics he just wished that he could be removed from some of it's more capricious acts, like being directed to talk to the media and in particular The Las Vegas Tribune's senior crime reporter, Agatha Babylon.  
  
So here he was, waiting in the foyer of the Tribune. He'd been told to be here at 5:00 and it was now 6:30. Finally, fed up - and having read through all the available magazines - he decided that an hour and a half was an acceptable period to devote to the cause of politics. Preparing to leave, he was almost run down by a long-haired, midget who swept past him and charged straight up to the receptionist, who, after a few muttered words, pointed at Grissom's retreating back.  
  
"Mr. Gruesome? Mr. Gruesome...please, wait."  
  
A CSI would have hastily headed for the nearest exit at this point; long exposure to Grissom having preternaturally tuned their senses to the grinding of his teeth. This person - and that was mere approximation on Grissom's part - was another matter entirely  
  
"It's Grissom, actually," he said mildly as he turned to face her. On closer inspection, Grissom conceded that calling this annoying little bug a midget wasn't entirely fair; yes she was short but no threat to any respectable garden gnome. Her diminutive stature was compensated for - and Grissom used that term in its broadest possible sense - by a personality that bore a remarkable resemblance to nails on a blackboard and a voice that could bend metal at a thousand yards.  
  
"Mr. Gruesome," she continued, ignoring his correction "I'm Agatha Babylon." Here she paused as if waiting for unheard applause to finish, "If you'll come this way please, we'll begin." Grissom, resigned to his fate, followed, escorted only by a sympathetic look from the receptionist as she watched his retreating back.  
  
After following his tormentor down a maze of corridors for what seemed like an eternity, Grissom found himself escorted into a large office that had recently been under nuclear attack.  
  
"Take a seat Mr. Gruesome."  
  
"It's Grissom"  
  
"Yes that's right, sorry; so you're here to talk about the Shakespeare Killer, correct?" This was said with the enthusiasm of a shark invited to spend the afternoon in a crowded paddling pool.  
  
"I have been asked, by way of the Mayor, to answer those questions you feel are pertinent to providing a degree of reassurance to the public that everything is being done to catch the person or persons responsible for these killings."  
  
"That being said then, just how much of a sick, twisted pervert is this killer Mr. Grissom?"  
  
"I don't think the answer to that would be reassuring Ms. Babylon, and since we haven't caught him I couldn't tell you."  
  
"But surely you have some idea, I mean this man hangs people from ceilings from meat hooks and nails pages of hardcore pornography into their foreheads, that's pretty twisted is it not?"  
  
Grissom was flummoxed "Where did you hear these things?"  
  
"I have my sources who shall, of course, remain confidential"  
  
"You should probably invest in some new sources then, it would appear that their contact with the facts is sporadic at best."  
  
Ms. Babylon was not amused. Ms. Babylon, it appeared had no discernable sense of humour at all. "My readers have a right to know, Mr. Grissom."  
  
"That's why I'm here."  
  
"Let's continue then. Did the killer have sex with the corpses? Did he desecrate them?"  
  
"Well firstly, you're assuming that the killer is a male. We have no evidence that this is the case."  
  
'Surely it must be a male, Mr. Gibbon..."  
  
"Grissom."  
  
"Grissom...sorry...no female could possibly do that."  
  
"Do what?"  
  
"That."  
  
"That?"  
  
"That. You're not helping Mr. Grissom. Let's try that again: did the killer desecrate or in any way sexually violate the corpses?"  
  
"No."  
  
"How disappointing," she murmured.  
  
"Alright then, how about messages, Mr. Grissom. Did the killer leave any messages?"  
  
"For whom?"  
  
"Father Christmas perhaps? Stop playing stupid Grissom. Were any messages, notes or forms of communication left by the killer?"  
  
"Other than the bodies? I'd consider leaving a body as a pretty big message."  
  
"Yes. Other than the bodies." Babylon let out a long-suffering sigh, this interview wasn't going as she planned. For a start, this man, Crispen...no that wasn't it...aha! Grissom was his name, was completely unhelpful, she wasn't sure if he was being deliberately misleading or completely clueless. She didn't think the Mayor would have sent her an idiot, but then again, since she had called the Mayor an uptight prig with a messiah complex, she wasn't expecting any favours. She returned her attention to the man realising she'd just caught the end of what he'd been saying.  
  
"Could you repeat that for me please?"  
  
Grissom shrugged. He had to admit that he was having more fun with this interview than he thought he would, previously aware, as he was, of Ms. Babylon's reputation for, at best, scare-mongering, tabloid journalism. There was, he prided himself, a lot to be said for being profoundly literal at times. If nothing else it annoyed the hell out of people, and the several years practise he'd had baiting his staff was paying dividends.  
  
"I said that the only messages that the killer left were the Shakespearean quotations you and your colleagues are so fond of."  
  
"What do they have to do with the killings?"  
  
"I don't know, maybe he didn't have a pen with him for the first killing and had to improvise and liked the idea so much he kept doing it."  
  
"I meant," - this through clenched teeth - "Is there a link between what the messages say and a possible motive for the killings."  
  
"I'll ask him, or her, when we catch them."  
  
"So you expect to catch them soon?"  
  
"I didn't say that."  
  
"Do you expect to catch them at all?"  
  
"We have hopes."  
  
"How about a clue?"  
  
"Several."  
  
"Such as?"  
  
"Now that would be telling Ms. Babylon, and we can't afford to compromise the investigation."  
  
"But my readers..."  
  
"Yes your readers would perhaps be best advised not to let any strangers into their house and indeed pay attention to any strangers in their area."  
  
"But that sort of information is no different from the previous interviews given by the Chief of Police and the Mayor, it doesn't tell us anything."  
  
"So precisely what sort of information did you want Ms. Babylon? Something prurient perhaps? A little scandal? A vivid description, or maybe even the killer's summer fashion colours? Look Ms. Babylon, I care nothing for your newspaper and even less for your style of - and I hesitate to use the word in your case - journalism. Why don't you tell your readers that the police are doing everything they can and leave it at that."  
  
"You have no right to talk to me that way, Grissom," she spat. "I have important friends and people listen to me."  
  
"I'm very happy for you Ms. Babylon, have a pleasant day." And so saying, Grissom rose from his chair and left the office, the penetrating shrieks of the enraged harpy following him to the lobby. Handing his visitor's pass to the receptionist, he paused briefly and asked if Babylon was normally like that - the shrieks still clearly audible throughout the building.  
  
Maintaining a bland expression, the receptionist informed him that this was a good day and that leaving now would be the course of wisdom before Ms. Babylon came looking for him with a knife.  
  
Taking such wisdom advice under advisement, Grissom beat a hasty retreat.  
  
  
  
*********  
  
  
  
It had been a long day, a day without respite or surcease from the slings and arrows thrown his way without a hint of compassion or remorse; truth be told, Greg felt like a dishrag, wrung out by an indifferent world.  
  
If Benzine had been human she would have mocked him for the melodrama, but being a cat, she settled for looking infuriatingly superior; Greg got the idea though.  
  
"Yeah, Yeah, I know. Go chase a mouse or something."  
  
Benzine ignored him, curled up on his latest copy of Hustler and went to sleep.  
  
Greg thought briefly about throwing a cactus at the cat, but in the interests of domestic tranquillity decided to start his latest composition assignment from Mueller. In her wisdom, Mueller had stated that the composition was to be a minimum of ten minutes in length but no longer than two movements; in short her scope was so broad as to called 'The Rope' assignment by the students - as in 'give 'em enough rope...'  
  
Choosing a composition style was never difficult for Greg since he invariably chose a minor key so that he could wander around in the sombre, muted tones of his own despair; even when he was happy his music walked in a reverie accompanied only by his own self-induced solitude. As for a format, well, the stately grace of the fugue gave Greg all the scope he needed to be as depressing as hell. If nothing else, it would be worth the trouble merely for the sight of Mueller as soon as she saw the key signature.  
  
Nevertheless, for the moment, he was weary, weary and a little confused; his life was taking twists he hadn't imagined when he left the lab and now he was returning. Then there was Rilie. Rilie of the viperish tongue and the tar pit of a mind - not forgetting of course the body, but going there was just asking for a slapping not that that was completely objectionable either. He was rambling now, time to call it a night, maybe the world would be less confusing in the morning. 


	11. Blade Fetish

Another chapter out the way: you know, I'm starting to think that if I actually planned things out instead of just writing this off the top of my head this fic would move a bit faster.  
  
I'd like to take this opportunity to apologise to my betas. After the last update I decided I hated the grammar form so much in the first 3 pages that I essentially rewrote large bits of it. So, large bits of this are unbeta- d, blame me, not them. Then again, Mich has been distracted of late and Emily is probably convinced I'm a psycho, so we'll just have to see.  
  
On a side note: I hate this chapter, it sucks, badly, please feel free to agree with me.  
  
Finally, [god I'm longwinded], does someone want to give me a CSI writing challenge, any character/ inclusions etc. I'm thinking a change of pace might help with this nightmare.  
  
If anyone is still out there, reading and enjoying this fic, please read and review.cheers  
  
Ordinarily he was insane, but he had lucid moments when he was merely stupid. (Heinrich Heine (1797 - 1856))  
  
What can you say about a society that says that God is dead and Elvis is alive? (Irv Kupcinet)  
  
Imagination is the one weapon in the war against reality. (Jules de Gaultier)  
The hospital had been built in a wealthy area, which in and of itself was a bold move by the city authorities, in that while the rich approved of the concept of health care, a hospital was where one went, it wasn't located down the road from the country club. Yet, the location of the hospital wasn't the only brave decision made by the County Council. In naming the facility after Saint Ignatius the Lame, the Council had demonstrated once again the bureaucratic talent for adopting the wildly inappropriate. Saint Ignatius was famous not so much for his miraculous powers of healing as he was for making the blind lame and the live dead. His beatification and eventual elevation to sainthood was testament more to delicious irony than a coherent policy of spiritual recognition and reward, it was a sainthood bestowed, when at his death, all his patients made a remarkable recovery. Due to the lack of medical knowledge at the time, this mass return to health was interpreted as a miracle, and a sign of Ignatius' divinity.  
  
The newest arrival at the hospital was a celebrity for all the wrong reasons. The latest, and youngest victim of the Shakespeare Killer, or so the maniac was known, was rushed to Saint Ignatius' after his mother was found butchered and he nailed to a wall sans tongue beside her. To the surgeons' relief the tongue was found affixed to the wall and in a marathon session of surgery, the tongue was successfully reattached and the child was now recovering in a private suite under twenty-four guard.  
  
The chief administrator of the hospital, had protested vehemently about the presence of police in his hospital, questioning whether one child really need so much protection. The chief administrator didn't mention his fear that the presence of the police would scare away the wealthy reconstructive surgery patients - essentially the hospital's bottom line- who filled its private wing to overflowing.  
  
The police response had been blunt having dealt with hospital administrators and their bottom line in the past. In terms as polite as their limited patience would allow, the police put it to the administrator that having a temporary police presence at the hospital was probably less damaging in terms of publicity, than having a well-known and universally unloved maniac turn up in search of the child and deciding, while waiting, to attach a few of the hospital's other - read wealthy - patients to the walls. Unsurprisingly, the administrator caved in at this point.  
  
Of course, neither the hospital, nor the police, had consulted with the killer who had made other plans; at least inasmuch as he was able to call the echoes that crawled mellifluously through the inner reaches of his mind, plans. Compulsion is a dangerous thing, and a concept difficult for those not similarly compelled to understand. Accusations to the effect that if the subject had exerted a modicum of self-control then the geas could at least have been subliminated behind an appropriate social façade could be safely ignored. When he was able to gain some freedom, a surcease from the rage and unquenchable hatred, remorse and compassion almost overwhelmed him. But never for long enough. Never for a period of time that would allow him to escape the iron fist that grasped his mind and repent of his sins.  
  
Hell would be a welcome respite, for in hell there was death.  
  
He approached from the East, waiting in the twilight-shrouded wood that surrounded the hospital for the appropriate moment. Waiting was the key, waiting and watching, as the unending commands had driven him from the meticulous planning so intrinsic to his nature and his success evasion of capture. He had tried to argue that the masters' purpose was best served by giving him time to plan, to observe; but their lust for the task, in their eyes, unfinished, precluded caution, prevented planning.  
  
There were police everywhere, what with their comings and goings and the regular patrols through the hospital grounds; it was as if they were expecting company. He wondered what, or whom, the police on guard had been told to watch out for, probably someone 'suspicious', a category that pretty much covered most of the population of metropolitan Las Vegas.  
  
Making his way through the shadows, he entered the hospital through the deserted ambulance bay, the police having decided that they couldn't effectively guard a continuously busy driveway. Taking the back stairs he quickly ascended to the second floor, which housed the reception. Slipping quietly into the waiting area, he took a seat making himself inconspicuous shrouded by the cloak or ordinariness woven about his person.  
  
"Can I help you sir?' inquired a nurse from the reception counter.  
  
Raising his head slightly, he responded with a polite "No thank you, I am waiting for someone", before returning to the magazine he was ostensibly reading. In reality he was watching for the police, not out of fear of discovery, but because the best place to find a person under police protection was to look for where the police were moving to and from. Sure enough about twenty minutes after he had sat down, two uniformed officers emerged from the lift in front of reception, nodded amiably at the desk nurse, and made their way down the corridor.  
  
After waiting a suitable interval, he rose from his seat and headed in the direction the police officers had gone. Even with the officers no longer in sight, his final destination became clear as signs directed him firstly towards the children's ward and then towards the private wing of that self- same area. He didn't know for sure that the child would indeed be there but logic dictated that the police would want to keep the child in a more secure area than a general ward.  
  
A few minutes of silent prowling eventually led him to a corridor that branched off from the main ward, pausing at the junction he heard the basso rumble of muted voices and a surreptitious glance around the corner confirmed the presence of the police - four of them; probably a shift change.  
  
It was then that a small voice interrupted his meditations.  
  
"Hello mister."  
  
The source, located somewhere below his hip, was blond with a puckish face and bright blue eyes.  
  
He knelt to be closer to her eye level, "Hello child, what can I do for you?"  
  
"Kill her!" screamed the familiar voices, "We demand this child."  
  
"No." He answered silently, "You may not have her, she is not why I have come."  
  
"Have you seen my Mummy and Daddy? They were supposed to come see me."  
  
"Sorry child, I have not. Where is your bed, you should not be wandering the corridors alone."  
  
"It's this way, do you want to come play?" Innocent, questioning eyes regarded him briefly before she grasped his hand and dragged him behind her; the child and the giant.  
  
"Obey us."  
  
"No Master, this is neither the time nor the place, she does not challenge you; I will not submit."  
  
Nearing the main children's ward, the oddly matched pair encountered a flustered looking man and woman, who with a startled exclamation swept the child into their arms.  
  
Grave eyes regarded them from the safety of their arms. "I didn't think you were coming. I thought you had forgotten me."  
  
"No sweetie," replied the mother, "we were held up in traffic"; she turned her gaze to the stranger before her and her husband, "Who is your friend?"  
  
He answered softly, "I found her walking the halls; she had decided that she would find someone else to play with since you had not come. I was returning her to her bed."  
  
The child's parents exchanged relieved glances, "Thank you. We didn't mean to be late, but getting to the hospital since that child escaped that...that psycho, has been just about impossible, you can't move five feet without having to identify yourself."  
  
The killer smiled understandingly, "No offence taken, you can never be too careful. Now, you must excuse me, I have to go." Turning his attention to the child, he gently extended a large hand, which she took in her small one, "Take care little one, it was a pleasure to meet you," releasing her had he nodded silently once more to her parents and began the journey to leave the hospital grounds.  
  
"Where are you going slave, there is work to be done."  
  
"Not in this time, not in this place master. Let the child be, he is not yours to claim."  
  
"You will pay for this slave, you will pay."  
  
"Your will master."  
  
*************  
  
It had been a long day. Admittedly, it was only 7:30, and shift wasn't due to start for another half hour or so, but Gil Grissom felt like he'd been put through the proverbial wringer; but then repeatedly bashing your head against a brick wall tended to have that effect. In fact, after dealing with that Babylon woman, Grissom had firmly resolved to mend his relations with Conrad Ecklie, for in comparison, Ecklie was a paragon of reason and virtue. Breezing past the receptionist with a vague nod, and an even vaguer wave when told he had messages waiting, Grissom headed for his office where he dropped his gear before heading for the one place where he knew he'd find peace and solitude; the morgue.  
  
Unbeknownst to the majority of the staff, Grissom had long ago smuggled a small portable stereo system into the morgue. He'd also - and even more unbeknownst - smuggled in a particularly fine bottle of aged tawny port. When the need took him, he retreated here to collect his thoughts and to make sense of the world around him. Foremost in his mind was not the interview he'd just subjected himself to, nor was it the continuing forensic nightmare that was the Shakespeare Killer, instead his mind turned to the enigma that was Greg.  
  
Grissom knew that his people skills were not the strongest, however, unlike most of the interpersonally clueless, Grissom's lack of skills was due more to unconscious personal choice than through any particular lack of empathy or intuition. Far from being an emotional cripple, Gil Grissom was intensely sensitive, but he had turned those feelings inward, towards his passions and his career, and as a result the connection that most people have with their fellow beings attenuated, then severed, leaving Grissom sometimes grasping for understanding. It was only in the past few years that Grissom, in working with his current colleagues, had been allowed - and indeed allowed himself -a glimpse into a room long forgotten.  
  
Yet for all his failings, Grissom didn't understand how he could have misread Greg to the degree that he had. It wasn't his estimation of Greg's intelligence that Grissom was berating himself over, he was well aware how intelligent the young lab tech was. What was grating on his nerves was the fact that he had mistaken Greg for a cultureless savage. If there was one thing Grissom impressed upon all his staff it was that they should never accept anything at face value.  
  
And lo, the master himself had been undone by the subtle sounds of Black Flag. Next time, he thought, I'll know better, grateful indeed, since his visit to the university, that there would be a next time  
  
**********  
  
Gaunt to the point of emaciation, and enveloped in a penumbra of pure maleficence, the person at reception had had the receptionist suppressing involuntary thoughts involving garlic; in fact, if Brass had been around, he would have arrested the visitor for impersonating the living.  
  
"Can I help you sir?"  
  
"Indeed you may," was the reply, which was more akin to a hollow echo in a long-abandoned corridor than a human voice, "I am seeking a gentleman by name of Grissom. Would you be so good as to inform me if such a personage is currently located on the premises."  
  
"You wish to know if Grissom is here?" asked the receptionist, who had taken a moment to decipher the request.  
  
"I believe that is what I said. Would you be so good as to summon Mr. Grissom, so than one may briefly converse with him on a matter of some import."  
  
"I'll need some sort of identification first sir; for obvious reasons we don't allow unrestricted access to the staff. Past experience has shown that those members of the public whom have had less than favourable dealings with the CSI unit have proven to be somewhat antagonistic."  
  
Digesting this information with due consideration, the gaunt figure reached into the inner pocket of their immaculately presented, grey suit and withdrew a billfold. From this was withdrawn a small rectangle of heavily embossed card from which, after careful examination - the copperplate script being so intricate - the receptionist read that it identified the holder as Jeremiah Doom, attorney-at-law (and senior partner) with Doom, Petit-Morte and Avariss.  
  
"Very well Mr. Doom, I will try to locate Mr. Grissom for you. Might I ask what this visit is in connection with?"  
  
"You may ask," was the only reply.  
  
Fantastic, thought the receptionist, Grissom will be completely overjoyed, so overjoyed in fact, that I can look forward a fifteen-minute bollocking for disturbing him. First, he had to deal with the media and now he is going to go head-to-head with Death's, younger, less-attractive brother. Let's face it, Grissom's never going to win any awards for charm and interpersonal relations, but this guy makes him look like the head of the United Nations Diplomatic Corps.  
  
The receptionist decided that the logical place to start was Grissom's office - so of course Grissom wasn't there. She knew he wasn't with Jim Brass, because Brass had headed out earlier muttering something about cemeteries; she didn't know what it was with Brass and cemeteries but thought that he was probably working himself too hard. If she'd had a few drinks she probably would have sent the sepulchral presence after Brass, if nothing else Jim would have been able to house the guy in an abandoned crypt.  
  
The break room also proved to be another place where the CSI shift supervisor wasn't. Warrick, who'd answered the phone, replied that neither he nor Nick, who was with him, had seen Grissom since last night's shift and that wasn't Grissom supposed to be doing some sort of interview; or at least that's what Greg had said when he'd dropped in earlier.  
  
As a last hope, the receptionist put a call through to Doc Robbins, in what was routinely called 'the butcher's shop' around the lab. Robbins said that no, Grissom wasn't with him, but he had seen him earlier on his way to morgue proper, and since he hadn't, to Robbins knowledge returned, he was, in all probability, still there.  
  
Thanking the doctor, the receptionist dialled the direct extension for the morgue and after a few rings, Grissom answered.  
  
"Mr. Grissom? It's Rosemary at reception, there's a lawyer here to see you, a Mr..." she paused briefly to clarify the visitors name, "...a Mr Doom."  
  
"Did this Mr. Doom tell you WHY he wants to see me?" The receptionist winced at the heavy emphasis placed on the interrogative.  
  
"Sorry Mr. Grissom, he refused. Would you mind coming to reception sir, I get the feeling that nothing short of a death, probably his own, will remove him from the foyer; and frankly, he's giving me the creeps."  
  
Swallowing his instinctive antagonism at such an unprofessional comment and suppressing his resignation at having to surrender his port and music for another time, Grissom agreed to come to reception. Walking back through the 'butchery' he received a sympathetic look from the Doc, as if to say, 'Sorry Gil, but I had no choice'. Acknowledging Robbins' unspoken empathy, Grissom made his way to reception with the incipient dread of a fundamentalist preacher approaching Playboy Mansion. If there was one thing Gil Grissom hated more than the media, it was lawyers. In his mind. while the media were guilty of mere sensationalism, lawyers did everything in their power to muddy the waters of his clean, precise evidence. While Grissom would never go so far as to impugn the integrity of all lawyers, in general he trusted them about as far as he could throw them uphill...into a strong wind...with a fork.  
  
Approaching reception, Grissom was able to see the doom that awaited him, it didn't look promising; only tax lawyers, ambulance chasers or attorneys to the rich and famous wore suits like that.  
  
"Mr. Doom? I'm Gil Grissom, may I help you?" Grissom did not extend his hand.  
  
In return, the lawyer regarded Grissom in such a manner as to make Grissom feel like he was one of his own bugs under a very malicious microscope. "Indeed Mr. Grissom I believe you may. I am given to understand that you are acquainted with the person who has retained my services, a Ms. Babylon."  
  
"I wouldn't say that I 'know' Ms. Babylon, I was, however, at her place of business this afternoon to provide information about a current investigation she has been covering for the Tribune."  
  
"So I am led to believe. Mr. Grissom, my client has retained me in order to initiate slander proceedings against you."  
  
"Slander? Surely, you're not serious."  
  
"Indeed I am Mr. Grissom. Ms. Babylon has stated, and I quote, 'Mr. Gil Grissom of the Las Vegas Crime Lab, called into question my personal and professional ethics in such a manner as to cause severe emotional and psychological trauma'. I can assure you Mr. Grissom, that we, at Doom, Petit Morte and Avariss, take such matters quite seriously. However, Ms. Babylon has, quite generously in my opinion, allowed me to approach you with a potential settlement. If you agree to remit payment of one hundred thousand dollars, Ms. Babylon is quite prepared to forgive and forget."  
  
"Mr. Doom, I'm not one to cast professional aspersions, but your willingness to chase such a spurious action is somewhat disconcerting. Inform Ms. Babylon, that there will be no settlement, and further, advise her that if she wishes to engage in a competition of professional ethics I am more than happy to oblige."  
  
Doom received this information with a granite-like expression. "Very well Mr. Grissom, I shall pass on your refusal, of this most generous offer, to our client, be assured, I will be recontacting you shortly. Good day."  
  
Grissom watched the lawyer depart; some small part of him hoping that he would trip and impale himself on the garden stakes that lined the entranceway. Turning to the receptionist he shrugged, and headed towards his office before pausing and turning back to face her. "Rosemary?"  
  
"Yes Mr. Grissom?"  
  
"If Mr. Doom, or any of his associates, call again, call an exorcist or even an exterminator, but don't call me. Clear?"  
  
"Crystal, Mr. Grissom."  
  
**********  
Conrad Ecklie was excited, he still looked as stoic as a prohibitionist, but to those who knew him he was bouncing up and down like an excited child after consuming way too much sugar. He couldn't believe no one had thought of it before - and he had checked to make sure, past experience with Grissom having firmly embedded that lesson - and now he knew he had something, something which could blow the case wide open; he couldn't wait to get to work.  
  
**********  
  
It was girls' night; a semi-occasional event where Rilie, Cassidy and a few of their friends gathered to talk, drink and generally raise a little bit of mayhem. This particular evening the group had gathered at Cassidy's and were already several bottles of beer and bourbon into things  
  
"So how long you been banging Greg, Rilie?"  
  
"Huh?"  
  
"You know, Greg. The cutie who was playing pool with us at Uncle Mike's."  
  
"I'm not."  
  
"Who's Greg?" Asked Jacklyn, Cassidy's younger sister, and a fellow music student, although at undergraduate level.  
  
"He's this hottie that Rilie dug up in the music department, she dragged him along to pool night."  
  
"Christ Cass, he's not a hottie, he's just a friend" - well I think he's a friend, he is hot...whoa...so not going there, "I felt kinda sorry for him; think of it like a homeless animal adoption thing."  
  
"Well, if you're not making with the wild monkey sex, can I have him? I told you I thought he was cute"  
  
"No!" Rilie wasn't pleased by this development  
  
"Why not? You can't have it both ways you know."  
  
Rilie sighed to herself, frankly, and if she was being brutally honest with herself, she didn't know how she felt about Greg. Admittedly, a great deal of her ambivalence came from her own insecurities. Sure, it was a cliché, but she'd been hurt before, badly, and she'd sworn that it would never happen again. It wasn't like she was damaged goods, she hastily amended, it was just that trust was a precious commodity, one she wasn't wild about sharing.  
  
But her insecurities didn't address how she felt about Greg.  
  
She wasn't naïve enough to think she was in love with Greg, god, she - being brutally honest - barely knew him. But there was something about him that made her feel good about herself, maybe it was because she recognised a kindred spirit, someone else fighting for acceptance, fighting for their identity, or maybe it was just that he was easy to insult. Whatever it was she felt like herself around him.  
  
"So, what does he look like? Is he a tall, dark stranger?"  
  
"Christ Amie, too many Mills and Boon's for you. What next? Does he ride a bloody white horse?"  
  
"No, but is he hung li.."  
  
"You are so not going there. In fact I don't want to hear any more, see, I am putting my hands over my ears...lalalala..I can't hear what your saying..lalala.."  
  
Shaking her head in comic dismay, Rilie made an abrupt, strategic retreat at that point, throwing a comment about going to the bathroom over her shoulder as she hurried from the room. When she emerged she found Jacklyn waiting for her.  
  
"Alright Rilie, spill, what's really going on, I don't think I've ever seen you this confused over a guy, normally you couldn't care less, and if you're horny you grab what's available...as it were, so what's the what?"  
  
For all her bravado, Rilie didn't know how to answer, at least not in the conventional sense. Her discomfort with her innermost feelings was such that she really should have been born a male: hardly surprising with being raised in a family of males that had a fight when they were feeling emotionally naked. Discussion was carried out through curses, insults and violence, the only thing agreed on that neither their mother nor Rilie was to be involved. This bastardised code of chivalry did more to heighten the tensions in the household than resolve them, as her father and brothers constantly tried to manipulate the women in an eternal endgame of spite and manipulation that had only ended when Rilie's mother had died and Rilie had left.  
  
She sighed, "I don't know Jac, half the time I want to kill this guy, but just when I'm about to slug him he makes me laugh; it's a special thing, especially as I've had precious little to laugh about lately."  
  
Her friend regarded her with sympathy. Considering how hard being Rilie's friend was - Alcatraz had been less closely guarded - Jacklyn understood that Rilie must indeed be truly rattled by this guy, this Greg, to get her to admit to some degree of human frailty. The Rilie, Jacklyn had always known, was as tough as old boots and stable as bedrock, now she seemed to have the emotional calm of a jelly in a high wind, it was most disconcerting.  
  
"Look Jac, don't stress it, Cass just pissed me off because I'm still trying to figure things out and she pushed a bit far, if she wants to chase Greg, then fine, I don't care."  
  
Jacklyn was not convinced.  
  
************  
  
"Alright Sanders, what is a scale?"  
  
Greg groaned; he hated it when Mueller decided to treat the class like a group of retarded lab rats. "A scale is a defined mathematical progression where each note holds a specific, defined relation, not only to the notes before and after but also to the specific construction, or if you prefer label, of the defined or identified sequence."  
  
"Thank you for that Sanders, precisely what language was that in?"  
  
"You asked for a definition professor, I gave you a definition, I wasn't aware that you were after one, specific definition." At the best of times, it was a knife-edge thing to wind Mueller up, but today for some reason, Greg didn't seem to care.  
  
"Strangely enough, this being a composition class, in music no less, I expected a definition that bore some a passing resemblance to music."  
  
"I did" Greg replied shortly. "Music is essentially a form of mathematics, well at least everything from the notation to the intervals to the scales...shall I go on?"  
  
Mueller looked like she was going to implode, her face taking on the semblance of an overstimulated baboon's backside. Out of the corner of his eye Greg also noted a few of the other people in the class preparing to 'duck and cover' for when the inevitable eruption occurred: Greg, however, was not concerned, having endured the various vicissitudes of Grissom at his most pedantically enraged, Mueller was a minor annoyance by comparison.  
  
For some reason the expected explosion didn't eventuate, slowly, heads emerged from beneath desks while others remembered to draw breath. All eyes turned to Mueller, who was looking even more sadistic than ever. "Mr Sanders, come here", the voice had an ominous ring of finality to it.  
  
"Watch out Greg" someone hissed from behind him, "She's dangerous when she's wounded."  
  
Momentarily, the image of putting a bullet between the professor's eyes to finish her off, flashed through Greg's mind but he cast it aside as he slowly - and warily - rose from his seat.  
  
"Now Mr Sanders, since you appear so sure about your knowledge of scales, let us see how it extends into the realm of the practical." Mueller was almost purring. "Your term composition...front and centre" she said, indicating with her hand the piano at the front of the room, "A demonstration is in order."  
  
Greg stopped dead.  
  
"There's nowhere to run Mr Sanders. In addition, I don't want to hear that you don't have your composition here, after all, this is composition class."  
  
"Would you believe that I'm working on it at home?"  
  
"Next."  
  
"Next what?"  
  
"Contrary to popular opinion Mr Sanders, I am neither naïve, insane, nor for that matter, particularly gullible. Whatever excuse you care to create I've heard. Whatever evasion you may conjure it won't work. So I suggest, in the interests of saving us both a great deal of time and effort why don't you shut up and get on with presenting what you've done; clear?"  
  
Resigned to the inevitable, Greg made his way to the piano. He gave brief thought to making a run for it, but Mueller, perhaps sensing his line of thought, had moved to block the door and since she was built along the lines of a steroid-enhanced linebacker, the chances of Greg barging past were vanishingly small. He also decided against diving out the third-floor window, as the nearest fountain was several hundred metres out of range.  
  
Seating himself at the piano, Greg went through the mandatory stretches; fingers, shoulders, neck - he would have stretched his toes if he thought he could have got away with it, but a murderous look from Mueller convinced him he should stop stalling and just get the exercise in ritual disembowelment over and done with; Greg was well aware that he could compose Beethoven's fifteenth symphony and Mueller would still tell him it sucked.  
  
A note, adagio and then another, a skeletal framework constructed from a barren sound-scape slowly began to emerge, each note flaring then dying in a stately march that bespoke a desolation that hammered on the unconscious mind of the listener and was more affecting for the evocation of remembered hurt than of pain imagined.  
  
The silence left by the final note was shattered by the sound of several students surreptitiously swallowing tears, hoping that no one would notice. Even Mueller seemed strangely quiet, "Very affecting Mr Sanders, and pray, what do you call this piece?"  
  
"D.O.A , Professor; Dead On Arrival." 


	12. Playing in the Undertow

Another chapter finished. This took even longer than usual – which I bet most of you thought was well nigh impossible. Actually, I'm pretty happy with this, I picked it apart with a fine tooth comb about five times. Anything you hate about this chapter is entirely my doing as I gave my Betas the chapter off as there was some things I wanted to try. I actually gave up on this story at one point and was planning on having a one paragraph epilogue where a stray missile from a nuclear test facility took out the city, but that would have been bad.

 Music in this chapter comes from two excellent albums: Brother Where You Bound – by Supertramp and Oil and Gold by Shriekback.    

I hope those of you who read this enjoy the chapter and if so inclined write and tell me so.

_**********************_

_"If you prick us, do we not bleed? if you tickle us, do we not laugh? if you poison us, do we not die? and if you wrong us, shall we not revenge?".                                                                                 **(The Merchant of Venice: Act III, Scene I).**_

_After all, all he did was string together a lot of old, well-known quotations. _

H. L. Mencken, on Shakespeare 

_He who fights with monsters might take care lest he thereby become a monster. And if you gaze for long into an abyss, the abyss gazes also into you_. 

Friedrich Nietzsche 

**************************

When the wind is still, there is an almost mournful, elegiac quality to the rain, a grey haze washing the world with a sepia-toned palette.   

_So pardon me boys_

_I'm gonna be late_

_Don't have much choice_

_I've got to get into shape_

The rhythmic thwapping of the windscreen wipers provided a metronomic counterpoint to the restrained pathos coming from the radio. Today was the first day back at the lab and while Greg was prepared to admit to excitement, he was even more aware of the trepidation that crawled along his spine like a mosquito searching for an exposed vein. 

Ain't got no feelings 

_Ain't got no pain_

_Ain't got no reason_

_To try again_

Perspective now allowed him to admit that following his dreams was only part of the reason for leaving the lab. Not that he was ashamed of his decision. At the heart of any professional is a need for respect; the greater the talent the greater the need, and Greg was exceptional. To his credit, and unlike Vincent, he never sought plaudits or attention – if one discounted his flirting and the incessant music. Instead, he stood by his work, and waited.  Sometimes he felt like an obedient hound waiting for the approving sound of his master's voice, and perhaps, if especially fortunate a friendly pat. 

The waiting, the quiet competence, the robust professionalism – albeit with red and green spiked hair – amounted, in his eyes, to nothing and in his bitterness the slights and the perfunctory acknowledgement of his worth assumed an significance far beyond its actual meaning.

 He had realised that once he'd left. Hindsight is an equal opportunity guilt trip.

Don't need no finger 

_To point at me_

_Can't let it linger_

_I must get free_

And so he had run; not that he'd admit to anything other than a dignified departure.

Now he was back - definitely more with the grace and less with the running - and the crux of it all was discovering that he really was needed. Even with that added perspective he didn't stop worrying, worrying more than anything about the reactions of his colleagues. On a personal level he didn't care, life wasn't a popularity contest, but professionally he wondered if he could deal with Sara's cool disdain or Catherine's sardonic detachment. Warrick, he could handle. Warrick had too much of his own private hell to deal with, and as for Nick, well there was only so much of the patronising 'good ol' boy' routine he could stomach before stuffing the affable Texan into the fractional distillation unit; if only as an extension of an ongoing fantasy.

Then there was Grissom. 

Somewhat paradoxically, Greg felt the least 'professional' discomfort when considering the lead CSI. To a degree, he considered the air cleared between them, due in part to the encounter at the university and by extension the fact – no matter how dubious – that Grissom was now able to identify his former lab tech as several phyla above the flatworm. Less openly considered, and even less likely to be admitted, was the idea that in some ways the two men, although separated by a generation in age and attitude, were similar; similar in their tendency to present a façade to the world at large and to quietly observe the world through the protection offered by the close-fitting mask of their constructed social persona. Mayhap life was indeed a masquerade, but for both men it was one observed from the edge of the salon. 

Anyway, it was also commonly acknowledged that Sara was the sorcerer's apprentice; a position she guarded jealously, and one she would never willingly relinquish no matter how many times Greg asked her if someone had dropped a house on her sister. 

With less than a hundred metres to go Greg fought the urge to turn around and head towards anywhere other than the lab, Brazil for example. In fact, the only thing that stopped him was the appearance of Jim Brass in his rear view mirror. Fortunately for Greg's sense of surreality, Brass was in the car behind Greg and not plastered across his back window.  Acknowledging Brass' toot with a raised hand, the former and now undisputed lab tech, turned into the parking lot. 

After drawing a final, fortifying breath, Greg got out of his car and found that Brass had waited for him, a curiously bemused expression etched on his weathered features.

"We have to stop meeting like this, people will talk."

"Let them talk, I don't care. I'll never tell."

Brass laughed. "It's good to see you again Greg, and for what reason do you grace our humble abode this evening? I don't even think we've vacuumed."

"Never mind, let the dust bunnies have a night off.  You should remember why I'm here, you signed the form giving me a pay rise for returning on a consultancy basis."

"I did? I thought that was this month's stationary order. Oh well, now that you're here….."

"Thanks for the vote of confidence."

"That's my job now Greg, staff morale. Since the new chief put me in charge I'm little more than an office functionary; my typing has improved though."

This was a side of Brass, Greg had rarely seen. The relaxed sardonic version of Brass was usually found commiserating - over an alcoholic beverage of Scots origin- with Grissom after the forces of evil had defeated the forces of science in another of the interminable courtroom battles waged in the eponymous name of justice.

"You happy to be back Greg?"

"I think so."

"That doesn't sound overwhelmingly positive."

"You have good hearing."

"So what's up?"

"Just nervous I guess. Why is it that I'm always playing the prodigal, even when I have no wish to."

"That's a problem of your own making Greg, only you can decide where you belong." At this point Brass' cell phone decided to ring, and his answering grimace was enough to indicate his displeasure.

"What's up?"

"Someone's painted all the crypts at St Matilda's neon pink and they also dyed the sacramental wine blue, I guess I better go speak to the pastor, I'll see you later."

"Okay then; and Brass, thanks."

"No problem Greg, don't let the bastards get you down. Not, I hasten to add, that any of the team are bastards, but you know what I mean."

Rolling his eyes in amused resignation, Greg bid the former detective goodbye and headed for the front doors; if anyone had been watching they would have thought that at the very least, Cerberus itself, was guarding the entrance so filled with trepidation was Greg's approach.  

It was funny, he thought, how a new perspective on life in general affected the way one perceived those things that had been regarded as commonplace in the past. The CSI building was a case in point, previously, it had been a surrogate home – at least insofar as it gave him somewhere to hide – now, the fluorescent lights created an stark, clinical chiaroscuro, which further emphasized the alienation Greg felt towards this place. Yet, to be fair, it could not be said that the building was lifeless; inasmuch as such an animated hatred of beauty could hardly be completely lacking in some kind of emotional resonance; the Spanish Inquisition would have felt right at home, Greg, however, did not.

Briefly pausing at the reception desk to collect his identity card, Greg acknowledged the message to report to Grissom's office before starting for the evening. While he was certain that the shift head wasn't going to fetter him like a recalcitrant horse there was still a lingering sense of foreboding, a remnant of times past. You're being stupid, he told himself, there is no way that Grissom would treat you like that, and there is even less likelihood you would allow yourself to be treated so.

'Hello Greg." A softly modulated voice roused him from his reverie. Doc Robbins regarded the young man with a patient gaze, which in one questioned and affirmed the presence before him.

"Hi Doc, how're things."

"Dead."

"Other than the morgue."

"Slightly less dead, but just as exciting. Things have been pretty quiet lately, even the resident psycho seems to have gone on sabbatical; I guess even maniacs need a break, either that or they've imploded."

"Interesting thought."

"Well one tries to stay positive. Anyway, how are you Greg? It's been rather quiet with you gone."

"Thank you…..I think."

The coroner regarded the young man with calm eyes. He could see that things had changed, perhaps not so much in outward appearance - for Greg Sanders still resembled the aftermath of an nuclear assault - but in the quiet confidence that bespoke a renewed faith in oneself; he only hoped that it wouldn't be shattered by returning here. While Doc Robbins didn't doubt the integrity or indeed the manifest goodness of those who worked here he was well aware that the endless exposure to the darker side of the human condition inevitably pulled those who associated with it   into the abyss and they in turn pulled those around them in. It was one of the reasons why so few relationships in this business lasted, as partners and children often took the only alternative left to save their sanity and ran. Perhaps not literally, but they left, and the police officer or coroner or CSI was pulled that much deeper into the abyss. Some had said that the job was like a whirlpool, but Al Robbins preferred a bleaker metaphor, he likened the job to a black hole and if light could not escape then he held out little hope for a lab assistant. Yes, he was glad to see the young man again for his talent was undeniable, but not here, not in this place.

"Have you seen Grissom, Doc?"

"He was with me earlier, he wanted to discuss the murder at Los Carnivale."

"What happened?"

"One of the human cannonballs was disintegrated."

"Possibly an accident?"

"The additional twenty pounds of TNT stuffed into the back of the canon tend to argue against that."

Greg smiled wryly "I imagine it would. So what did Grissom want to discuss?"

"Just how much of a body I'd need for a legally verifiable autopsy."

"You don't have a body?"

"Technically speaking no; they're still picking pieces out of the ceilings and walls of the theatre. But I told Grissom that if they bring me a large enough chunk I should be able to test for chemical imprinting."

"Lovely. Anyway, do you know where Grissom went?"

"Back to his office, or that was the idea."

"OK, thanks Doc." 

At least some things never change, thought Greg; the Doc is still the most humane person here and probably the most human for all that. He gave an involuntary shudder; he could never be a coroner, searching for a DNA strand from a piece of brain matter was one thing digging around in the brain pan itself was something else entirely. It was actually a standing joke around the lab that Greg could identify anything so long as he didn't have to look at it. Strangely enough, the one person whom had understood was Sara Sidle, as she also had a tendency to turn green at a moment's notice. Fortunately, for the CSI, her predisposition for digestive discomfort was far less pronounced than Greg's but that hadn't stopped a certain colleague with a distinctive accent asking her to please not vomit on the evidence. It had never happened of course, but Sara's rictus-like grimace at crime scenes was a point of humour and occasional wagering between Warrick and Nick. 

It was the music that reached him first, the dark strains of Mussourgsky's 'Night on Bare Mountain'; something must have gone wrong for Grissom to be playing such a primally emotive piece. He paused before knocking, and receiving no response poked his head inside; Grissom sat with his back to the door and the music, combined with his failing hearing, made it hardly surprising that he hadn't heard the knock at the door.  

"Grissom…..Grissom!…..GRISSOM!!"

*Crash*. 

A surrealistic Zen moment fluttered through Greg's consciousness - for this was the sound of one man crashing - before he moved to help Grissom dis-entangle himself from his chair. If Grissom felt any embarrassment at his predicament it didn't show as he stood up and regarded his visitor. 

"Hello Greg. Good to see you. Take a seat."

Greg glanced suspiciously at the proffered chair before seating himself. "The message at reception said you wanted a word before I started this evening."

 "Nothing major Greg, just checking everything is in order before you start. Any problems?" 

Greg briefly looked like he was going to debate the merits of what precisely constituted a problem, but to Grissom's relief displayed remarkable forbearance and instead mutely indicated with a shake of the head that there were indeed no problems of which he was currently aware. Grissom had no doubt that this state of affairs would be immediately rectified within fifteen minutes of Greg's return to his demesne.

Grissom's estimation was far more prescient than even he could have predicted. 

Vincent, who had been in the lab processing blood samples, had taken less than five seconds to process Greg's presence, and the implications thereof, and promptly storm out muttering dire imprecations - all of which Greg ignored as he assumed his rightful place beside the Mass Spectrometer. Moments later the unmistakeable sounds of Shriekback scorched the halls of the previously sedate building.

_Our time has come: Age of the Hammerheads  
This is our mission, to be the Daleks of God  
Too late for silence, too late for anything  
It's all too much for me, its roots go down too deep for me_

_A punishing fire, an animal frenzy  
These hammerhead people know what danger is for  
You let them in and now they're everywhere  
If it's mineral or vegetable it's back a little up a little_

Newton's third law went into immediate effect and within seconds, a bushy-haired, laconic presence stood in the entranceway to the lab.

"Greg? You're back."

"Remarkable deduction Warrick, I see you've been honing your investigative skills in my absence….."

"…..and your sense of humour still needs work."

Having dispensed with the basic pleasantries, an awkward silence settled between the two men, a bit like a concrete piñata whose attackers had only a used sponge with which to unlock it's secrets. For his part, Warrick was wary, he didn't wish to repeat the mistakes of times past, which had contributed to Greg's original departure. On the other hand, Greg was as nervous as a Corporate CEO at an anti-globalisation rally, sure the CSI's had been friendly enough when he had visited recently, but how would they react now that he was officially back on their turf? While not wishing to appear ungrateful that he had been welcomed back – even though they had asked him and not vice versa - he had no wish to assume the position of the supplicant.

Go ahead, chided his self-conscious, beat yourself up before they get a chance.

"…..Greg…..hello…..Earth to Greg……"

"Huh? Oh sorry Warrick, I guess I'm still getting my bearings. What can I do for you?"

"Nothing, just heard the music and came-a-running. What's the deal, Griss mentioned that you were coming back, but he didn't say for how long."

Greg chuckled, 'Griss mentioned', was CSI shorthand for 'insert appropriate conjunctions, prepositions and verbs into this group of nouns'. "I'm back part time, Warrick, I ran into Grissom, who said you guys were really stretched and would I object to helping out. After suitable monetary incentive was dangled in front of yours truly, I consented to provide a limited degree of assistance out of the goodness of my heart".

"So basically what you're saying is that you're a mercenary."

"Consultant, Warrick, the correct term is consultant. Mercenary sounds so….."

"Mercenary."

"Yup." 

A slow grin hovered fleetingly in the tall man's eyes before he assumed a serious mien, "You realise that since you have assumed the role of a consultant you work will have to meet high standards of professionalism and accuracy."

"Like before?"

"Well…..yes….. But realise this Greg, if we need you in court, as a consultant, you'll have to wear a tie."

"Are you threatening me Warrick? I mean a tie is pretty strong language to use in front of someone doing you a favour."

Warrick merely smirked. "Fair enough. Anyway, I do have something for you to look at." Warrick held out a shirt, which, if one was being generous, could have been called white in a previous existence.

"No way Warrick."

"No way what?"

"I am not doing your laundry." Warrick could see that Greg was joking around and after he had offered the CSI some advice on personal hygiene and cleanliness around the home, took the shirt.

"What am I looking for?"

"Soil composition, the shirt belongs to a missing person, we have the clothes but no body and the soil stains on the clothes don't match where they were found. It's fairly routine, but the missing person is a kid." Warrick didn't need to say any more. Kids and crime had always been a big thing for the CSIs, Greg included, and they tended to unconsciously prioritise those cases where a child was involved; not that they let their other work slip, but the emotions involved with children drove them that much harder to find the answers. 

From that point on Warrick ceased to exist as Greg went Zen with the gas chromatograph, issuing, a muttered "Come back in an hour," that followed Warrick out the door. Smiling wryly, he headed towards the break room barely covering half the distance before encountering a posse of Nick, Catherine and Sara heading towards the lab. "Slow down guys, he's communing with machinery, you'd need to physically assault him to get a response."

"So he's definitely back?"

"Part time apparently, he's, to use his words, 'consulting' and he doesn't do laundry either."

"Laundry?"

"Never mind, Sara. C'mon guys, we've got a briefing, you can see him later."

***********

While the instruments went about their jobs, their various whirrs and clicks a staccato counterpoint to the chaos of his music, Greg set about re-personalising the lab. First, and most importantly was the placement of the coffee stash. The Sander's coffee stash had assumed a status of almost mythical proportions in Greg's time at the lab and in his absence the stories had grown in the telling. Two distinct factors contributed to this renown, the first, and of primary importance as a strategic counterpoint to the wondrous aromas that regularly emanated from the DNA lab, was the – purported – coffee that lived in the break room. 

Lived, was, in this instance, a fairly accurate term, as all tests on the break-room coffee had failed to identify it as such. In addition, Archie had sworn that the coffee was up to something, when a random review of the security cams had revealed it missing from its beaker. Since no-one would drink it, it therefore - according to Archie - had to be moving about of its own volition. That no-one, not even Grissom, challenged Archie on this point said more than a thousand logical, scientific refutations.

Secondly, Greg's coffee was good. Actually, it was beyond good it was currency. Numerous techs throughout the building traded their skills and time for a share of Greg's stash and with Machiavellian wit and guile, Greg was able to completely revolutionise the way information was processed within the office. The speed of light may have held some small status as a scientific constant but it was nothing compared to the news that the coffee had returned.   

After the coffee was hidden, the chairs adjusted, the screensaver changed and Vincent's login disabled, Greg felt himself able to return to the business at hand. Spreading various reports, printouts and charts across the worktable he quickly ascertained that the predominant characteristic of the soil-stained shirt was the high silica content, what was more interesting, however, was the accumulated residue of chemicals usually associated with a tannery. Quickly noting this down, the young man headed off to find Warrick, the thrill of the chase pumping through his veins.

After checking, and finding the break room empty, Greg headed for Grissom's office working on the assumption that since Grissom was the boss he should have an idea where his staff were. Rounding the corner he heard the slightly muffled sound of a Texan twang, a twang not quite muffled enough for him to not pick his name out of the random surrounding sounds. Moving closer he found his 'consultant' status to be the subject of some heated discussion.

"What's your problem Nick?"

"My problem is that I'm a CSI and he's now accorded a professional status that makes him my equal."

"So you don't think Greg deserves your professional respect."

"No…..yes……dammit Catherine that's not the point."

"You do have a point then?"

Nobody had seen or heard Greg quietly approach and lean against the doorframe his expression somewhere between annoyed and amused.

"The point is Catherine that he is a lab tech not….."

"…..a CSI."  Greg finished for him

"That's right, he's not a CS……I." Nick's voice petered out as he realised who'd completed his sentence. "Greg, I…..I didn't mean to…..I didn't think that….."

"I see you've retained your legendary eloquence Nick. Warrick? Here are the results on your shirt; you're looking for a tannery or something similar near sand." Returning his attention to the group at large Greg continued, "Would anyone else like to comment to my face on the conditions of my employment?" This last comment whilst general was clearly directed at Nick who had the grace to look abashed; Catherine merely grinned evilly.

"I take it then that your return has also seen the return of your coffee? I need something to bribe ballistics with."

"Sara, does that statement not strike you as being somewhat unprofessional?"

She shrugged, "Not really, it gets me what I want and it's far more professional than having to sleep with whomever happens to be on duty."

Grissom looked mildly scandalised, "You wouldn't."

"Bless your literal heart Grissom, of course I wouldn't, I'd send Catherine."

"Hey. We are so not going there, I just danced, and Sara, you are so dead. By the time I finish with you the Lord God Almighty won't be able to find you with a radio-telescope." Sara merely smiled.

"Nice to see things haven't changed since I left. Tell me again why I came back Grissom?"

"Something about the goodness of your heart was what you were telling me if I remember correctly; now if you don't mind, I have a briefing to finish." Greg acknowledged his dismissal with a grin and left for the lab leaving the CSIs' in a state of confusion as to the apparent state of amity between Grissom and the lab tech.

'Is there something you haven't told us Grissom?" 

"About…..?"

"Why you and Greg are acting like long-lost family now newly reunited."

"I would hardly say that was the case Catherine, the fact of the matter is that Greg and I have addressed our differences and found that we have enough common ground to work in a mutually beneficial capacity."

 "Are you OK Grissom, you sound like you swallowed a Human Resources manual?"

"Just fine thank you. Now, if we could return to what we were supposed to be discussing?"

Grissom couldn't help but feel a degree of satisfaction, and truth be told, a little smug. Not only was his relationship with Greg on solid ground but the rest of the CSIs were completely at a loss to explain the change in relations, although they were intelligent enough to realise that something must have changed in order for Greg to return the office as willingly as he appeared to have done. At heart, Grissom had a streak of mischievousness a mile wide, and the more often he could keep his people guessing the better, for a curious mind to Grissom, was one that kept looking for answers.

On the other hand, Greg wasn't so sure. Walking back to the lab, his primary thought was one of annoyance, initially at Nick for being an arsehole, but more at himself for letting Nick's comments get to him. The one thing he had sworn to himself was that he wouldn't let this place get him down and here he was, less than two hours after starting his first shift, regretting his decision to return.  

Listen to yourself, his subconscious noted. You're beating yourself up over something of which you have no control. Nick has small man's disease about Grissom's apparent distrust of his abilities. Grissom has no issue with Nick's abilities, but the only person who doesn't see that is Nick. Now, here you are, freshly minted and back in the fold and a consultant, of course that insecure Texan is going to get his back up; just remember, it's about him, not you. 

Greg hated it when his subconscious was right; it was like being lectured by an arrogant ghost who had all the answers with none of the accompanying baggage. It was also important to note that just because his subconscious was right it didn't mean that he wasn't going to spend a half hour or so engaged in an ecstasy of self-flagellation; you had to get your kicks somehow and frankly the nuns at the St Euphemia Noli Me Tangeri you Male Bastard Convent got more action than he did. Even his impure thoughts had given him up as a lost cause. 

Shrugging to himself, Greg began to head back to the lab before, on a whim, changing direction in mid-stride, deciding that terrorising Vincent for an hour or two would be far more productive and decidedly more entertaining than waiting for the inevitable and teeth-grindingly sincere apology that Nick would soon be on his way to deliver.

The apology never had a chance to come, however. As Grissom's briefing was finishing, Rosemary from reception charged through the door. 

"Mr Grissom! It's Mr Ecklie, he's been in a car accident; the paramedics said he was asking for you."


	13. The Heart of the Matter

Well it's kind of amusing, I still haven't uncovered the killer, and we don't know if Greg and Rilie will get together, or even if Ecklie will get better. But I kinda achieved my goal, Greg is happy and has his self- respect back.  
  
So here's the question, do I continue? This is not a threat by the way, where I'm at seems like a genuine conclusion.  
  
If I do, are y'all happy to put up with me taking forever to update.  
  
That being said, here's another chapter. A bit shorter than normal. Thanks to Emily [briefly] and to the coffee monster - I still disagree with you about Greg though and it's my ball...Mich, you never got back to me, so I didn't know what to do  
  
Anyway, hopefully [a] someone likes this and [b] tells me what they want.  
  
******************************  
  
Cos there's no easy way to, to understand it There's so much of my life in her, and it's like I'm blinded And it teaches you to never let go There's so much love you'll never know She can reach you no matter how far Wherever you are Phil Collins - Two Hearts  
  
For every person who wants to teach there are approximately thirty people who don't want to learn--much. W. C. Sellar and R. J. Yeatman, And Now All This (1932) introduction  
  
If you want to make peace, you don't talk to your friends. You talk to your enemies. Moshe Dayan (1915 - 1981)  
  
They arrived singly and in pairs, drifting into the hospital waiting room like orphaned children following a dark piper of ill fortune. They did not come out of good will for none existed; but in turn they came not to gloat. They came because one of their own had fallen, and no matter how great an enmity, none would wish the darkness to set without cause. The came and they waited, awkward in their discomfort, yet it was the discomfort of not knowing how to express emotions they didn't know they had for the person laid low by circumstance.  
  
Grissom was the last to arrive. Of all those present, he was the least comfortable, for the ill-feeling between he and Conrad Ecklie was, while not the stuff of legend, not inconsiderable in its reach or its depth; but nonetheless, he too would not wish this fate upon the head of the day shift.  
  
There were two distinct groups gathered in that waiting room, those CSIs, from both night and day shifts, who had heard the news and headed immediately for the hospital. The other, smaller group, gathered apart. It was obviously a family grouping comprised of both adults and children all of whom seemed to be ebbing and flowing about an older woman with the bearing of a matriarch. Grissom watched silently for a moment as the woman calmed a child, smiled reassuringly at another adult and spoke a calming word to a third, but in a brief, unguarded moment, Grissom saw the pain that she carefully hid behind the outward mask of serenity and if there was anyone who could identify a mask, it was Grissom.  
  
Grissom's silent soliloquy was interrupted by the emergence of a doctor from the emergency room, with a serious mien and sure stride; he approached the family grouping, pausing briefly to assess those present before moving to stand in front of the older woman of Grissom's observations.  
  
"Mrs Ecklie?" Despite the quiet, respectful tone of his inquiry, the sound was magnified as all within hearing quieted in order to better hear the medical pronouncement. Allowing himself a small, resigned smile at the intrusive foibles of human nature, the doctor continued. "At present we have Mr Ecklie in a medically induced coma, the accident resulted in significant trauma to his brain and until the swelling subsides we are unable to determine precisely the degree to which he is injured."  
  
The wife of Conrad Ecklie was understandably shaken, and for a brief moment she sagged against one of the young men who flanked her for support. The momentary weakness lasted no more than a second before she straightened and mechanically thanked the doctor for the information he had brought; the doctor, well used to the vagaries of shock and grief took little notice of her distraction, acknowledging her thanks he looked around as if trying to identify someone, failing, he addressed those gathered: "Is there a Mr Grissom present?"  
  
Grissom, surprised at being signalled out, nonetheless responded by tentatively raising his hand. Sighting the acknowledgement of his question the doctor approached.  
  
"Mr Grissom, I am given to understand that you are a friend of Mr Ecklie."  
  
"A colleague."  
  
"Quite." The doctor's lips thinned in a moue of pensive consideration as if debating whether to pass on the information that he held. "When Mr Ecklie was brought in he was semi-conscious, and to all intents and purposes comatose, but in a brief moment of lucidity he mentioned your name and something about 'he doesn't have the medicine'; does that, by chance, mean anything to you?"  
  
"No doctor, I can't say that it does, but I will think on it, thank you for passing that on. Are you able to tell me when Mr Ecklie will awaken?"  
  
The doctor gave Grissom a long, measuring look before answering, "I can't guarantee that he will awaken Mr Grissom. I suggest that you, like the family - who are far more important in my consideration - wait. Good day to you."  
  
Moving to return to the Emergency room, the doctor paused briefly for a quiet, and Grissom hope potentially reassuring word with Ecklie's, wife before disappearing behind the double doors at the end of the corridor.  
  
Seeing little point in waiting around, Grissom decided to return to work, asking Catherine to remain behind for a few hours on the off chance that Ecklie made a miraculous recovery and was able to pass on the information he obviously thought was so vital.  
  
"Mr Grissom?" The voice, while soft, held more than a hint of steel and an even greater measure of authority. Turning, Grissom came face to face with the matriarchal figure whom had previously been identified as Ecklie's wife.  
  
"Mrs..Ecklie?" Even though he was fairly sure it was she, such was her presence that Grissom had no wish to give offence.  
  
Politely nodding assent, she paused, as if searching for the best way to start. "I understand you work with my husband, Mr Grissom."  
  
"To an extent, ma'am. Your husband and I are the supervisors for the two shifts, as such we don't work together per se, but there is a degree of interaction."  
  
"I also understand that you do not have a favourable opinion of my husband."  
  
Grissom was momentarily at a loss for words. It was well and good calling a spade a spade, but coming out and baldly stating common, but unspoken, knowledge was somewhat unsettling. Deciding that the order of the day was directness, Grissom plunged onwards.  
  
"It's not so much unfavourable" Grissom blanched internally at the lie, "As I don't like the way he does things: he's too political, too regimented. In essence, our approaches, and indeed our personalities, are too different to allow common ground."  
  
"And this from the man who says that personal opinion should never be allowed to get in the way of the evidence."  
  
"I don't think.."  
  
"Let me finish Mr. Grissom. Conrad, for all that he'd never say it to your face, has a great deal of respect for your abilities, he just hates your lack of political nous and your grandstanding. It's ironic that you loathe in each other what you both lack."  
  
"I take it then that he's mentioned me."  
  
"Only in passing Mr Grissom, Conrad rarely brings his work home, it's one of the reasons why we remain so close. A word to the wise Mr Grissom, life is too short to worry about that which you cannot control. When Conrad and I started seeing each other I made it quite clear that I was not going to take second place to his work. We've been married twenty-eight years Mr Grissom, and happily so; his work stops at the door. It's only in the last four years or so that I've heard more about his work, it's all the fault of that dreadful killer, that Shakespeare creature. In fact Conrad had something of an epiphany just before his accident, I suppose it's somewhat ironic, but he was on his way to see you."  
  
"Do you know why?"  
  
A considering look crossed the features of Mrs Ecklie as she thought back to just before the accident. "No, he didn't say. All he mentioned was that he'd thought of something important and that you'd need to be told, and before you ask, no, I don't know why he didn't call you."  
  
"Maybe he wanted to gloat in person."  
  
Ecklie's wife seemed caught between annoyance and bemusement while Grissom mentally berated himself for a lack of tact that was, even by his own lofty standards, remarkable. If Catherine had of heard what he'd just said, he would have never heard the end of it and more than likely the sharp edge of her tongue would have filleted him on the spot. Mrs Ecklie, however, was cut from a very different cloth and her reply, while ostensibly mild was as cutting as anything Grissom's flame-haired colleague could have uttered. "That may well be Mr Grissom, and with an attitude such as yours one can see why he would wish to, as you would say, gloat."  
  
"Touché. Actually, ouch"  
  
"Conrad can be a difficult, stubborn man at times Mr Grissom, but he isn't petty and more importantly he would never put a personal vendetta ahead of the job...no matter what others may think. Anyway, it was a pleasure meeting you Mr Grissom, but I have more pressing concerns at present, so good evening to you."  
  
Thoroughly chastened, Grissom could only nod mutely in response before the formidable woman returned to her family, and he, after a suitably minute interval beat a hasty retreat to the safety of his car where he reflected on the vicious irony that had seen him less than a week before swear to mend relations with Ecklie.  
  
*******  
  
Back at the lab, Greg had spent an enjoyable hour torturing the erstwhile Vincent, commenting on everything from the man's shoes, tie; and appearance in general, before moving on to remark on the remarkable resemblance of his cologne to a sexually aroused civet cat. He had pushed too far, however, when he pressed Vincent as to the mental state of his latest silicone- enhanced, leopard- print wearing liaison and Vincent had threatened to vivisect him without the benefit of anaesthetic.  
  
Taking the hint, the lab tech had wandered off in search of other pursuits, or, if the gods were kind, victims. To his dismay, however, the building appeared deserted - at least of CSIs and by extension his primary targets. When the receptionist told him that everyone had gone to the hospital, Greg felt a momentarily abandoned before acknowledging that there wasn't, in the grand scheme of things, a whole lot of point in his attendance, other perhaps than acting as head cheerleader for the 'Guy with the Scythe', which under the circumstances was probably a little inappropriate.  
  
A quiet night was one of the oddities of the job, a place, which on most nights was the epitome of chaos, became quieter than a tomb without its vampire; in fact, the morgue was the proverbial party zone compared to the lab. After rearranging the test tubes for the tenth time and taking the wheels off Vincent's chair, he decided to check home for any phone messages; not that he expected any.  
  
The disembodied courtesy of Greg's answer-phone informed him that he had 'one new message'.  
  
"Hi...um...Greg,...it's Rilie..."  
  
How'd she get my number, Greg wondered. Like all people who worked with the police, Greg had been given the option of having an unlisted number, an option he'd taken in his quest to remain isolated from the world at large.  
  
"If you're wondering how I got your number...well I kinda...hacked...the university's student records database..."  
  
Well that explains that, he mused. Guess it must be important.  
  
"I'm not really sure why I'm calling you..."  
  
Or maybe not.  
  
"Look Greg, I was arguing with my friends, Cassie thinks you're a hottie and wants to jump your bones and I got all bent out of shape about it.  
  
I don't know why...well OK I do...but I can't tell you.."  
  
Rilie's voice on the message grew muffled and Greg listened in bemusement as she swore at herself for leaving him a message telling him that she couldn't say anything. Greg was torn, the message was turning out to be compulsive listening but he also felt like he was crawling around in someone else's psyche; even if it was his answering machine.  
  
"Where was I? Look Greg, I think you're a good guy...well you're not a complete pain in the arse...but I don't know what I'm thinking and...and...I really shouldn't have had that last margarita..and...look just forget I called OK. Bye."  
  
Well, Greg thought, that was different. No dial tone though.  
  
"Greg? You still there?"  
  
Looks like she didn't hang up he thought, and for a brief moment he regretted his lack of pop-corn; then Rilie started crying, and conscience briefly battled the vicarious voyeuristic pleasure he was experiencing .  
  
"Dammit, I am not crying. This is so unfair, why did I have to meet you and why couldn't you have stayed a bastard. You're still a weirdo, but not a bastard if you were a bastard then I...I..." **click**. The phone went dead.  
  
Speechlessness was a rare affliction for the lab tech, but Rilie's message left him lost for words; well words that could be strung together into a coherent sentence indicating understanding, empathy or just plain surprise. It was in this state that Grissom found him, head in hands, trying to make sense of the universe: DNA tracking was easy, you had a machine for that, women on the other hand..  
  
"Greg?"  
  
"Oh, hi Grissom. What's the word on Ecklie?"  
  
"Not good, he's in a medically induced coma, he suffered fairly severe head injuries as well as some other problems. They've got him stabilised, but can't really do anything until the swelling in his brain reduces enough for them to see what's going on."  
  
Greg felt momentarily guilty, the guilt a person feels when their conscience had previously caught them thinking something inappropriate and has now found the perfect opportunity to rub it in. "Who's going to take over day shift?"  
  
"No idea, Brass might take it over for a while, at least until we have a better idea of what's happening." Grissom paused briefly, seemingly weighing his words, "Greg, what do you know about Eckile's wife?"  
  
"How do you mean? What she looks like? What she does? Things like that?" Taking Grissom's nod as a prompt to continue, he considered carefully what he knew, and had heard, before answering. "This isn't gospel Grissom, but word has it that she's a paediatric psychologist and a damn good one too, which would probably explain how she puts up with..".  
  
"Greg, let's leave the personal observances aside for a second and concentrate on the rumours."  
  
Rendered speechless by Grissom's casual use of a non sequitur, Greg slowly returned to the problem at hand. Although he was fairly certain that he had been brought back here for his lab tech skills he was perfectly happy to play the part of Jessica Fletcher and Abigail van Buren's love child.  
  
"The general word is that she's good people, but don't cross her. Apparently, she is also fiercely protective of Ecklie. You know Miles, Ecklie's ballistics guy? Well he was telling Dave, who told Rosemary, who told me, that she ripped the late, unlamented Mobley a new arsehole when he tried to take Ecklie's accrued leave off him and his staff.  
  
"Now Ecklie, prick or not, went by the book, buried Mobley in more employment law than you can shake a stick at and he had to back off on Ecklie's staff; but Mobley, being Mobley, went after Ecklie, or at least he did until Mrs Ecklie came in to have a few words with him."  
  
Grissom was clearly surprised, not so much by the impression of Mrs Ecklie as the personification of the Hindu god Jaggernath, but at Greg's description of Ecklie standing up for his staff. To the shift head's knowledge, no-one had a good thing to say about Ecklie and he challenged the younger man on this fact.  
  
"Well, that's true to an extent Grissom, no-one likes Ecklie personally because he is a complete stickler for procedure and because he won't join in socially, but if you talk to his team you'll find that he backs them to the hilt. No-one takes advantage of the day shift and if they try, Ecklie will beat that person to death with a mountain of procedures and legal precedent; you did know that Ecklie is a qualified lawyer didn't you?"  
  
That final piece of information was enough to completely unsettle Grissom, it showed just how little he knew about the man he characterised as Bureaucracy - the fifth horseman of the apocalypse. It did explain a lot, especially Ecklie's actions when others were seen to go beyond the bounds of procedure. Grissom vividly remembered when Ecklie had gone after Nick Stokes and how everyone had attributed the shift head's behaviour to his dislike of Grissom and a resultant need to get at him though any way possible. Now, in light of what Greg had told him, he was prepared to believe that Ecklie was only going by the book as he had said he was at the time.  
  
It didn't change how Grissom felt about his colleague, for he had no positive memories to recall, but nevertheless it was humbling to realise just how far personal dislike could taint a person's perceptions. He had worked with Ecklie for a long time and had never even known about his legal training, so much for keeping your friends close and your enemies closer.  
  
"So how is it Greg, that you know all this? It's not like you're on a heart- to-heart basis with Ecklie."  
  
Greg smiled mischievously, and pointed to the steaming coffee pot in front of him. "I may not be on the best of terms with Ecklie, but even he trades for my coffee; and what I don't get out of him I find out from everybody else."  
  
"Really?" Grissom appeared interested, "Then you would know if Sara was..."  
  
"...interested in you." The younger man finished for him.  
  
"No!" Grissom's dismay was a palpable thing, an entity exposed to the light of day for the first time and deciding that it really preferred being nocturnal.  
  
Greg grinned mercilessly, "The coffee knows all Grissom."  
  
Deciding that there was only a limited amount of entertainment to be derived from torturing his boss - as much as he was enjoying the pleasure of having Grissom on the hot seat for a change - the lab tech returned to the subject at hand; Ecklie.  
  
"The thing with Ecklie, isn't so much that he's nasty, Grissom; well OK", he amended on seeing the older man's expression, "Maybe to you he's nasty, but you're no Prince Charming where he's concerned; to the rest of us, he's just oblivious. It's like he doesn't see us as more than tools to do a job and treats us accordingly. If one of us doesn't function as specified in the manual - you'd call it a job contract Grissom - then he has us fixed."  
  
Grissom looked thoughtful, what Greg had said rang true with the conversation he had had with Ecklie's wife. "It could be that you're right Greg. Ecklie's wife said that he never brings his work home, so I guess when he gets here, it's just the job that matters and everything around him is just part of the job ."  
  
"I'll tell you who does get on with him, Catherine."  
  
"You're joking...",  
  
"Not at all, simple answer too."  
  
".and what's that Greg?" Grissom appeared unwilling to give credence to the notion that Catherine got on with his nemesis, and perhaps more importantly, that he didn't know about it  
  
"He doesn't flirt with her, doesn't hit on her, no stripper comments, no come-ons, he's all business. He treats Catherine with professional respect and expects the same from her.'  
  
"So do I."  
  
"But you're also her friend, Grissom.  
  
Look at Nick and Warrick; they flirt with her. Hell, I flirted with her. There's something about Catherine that just gets guys going; Ecklie's the exception and Catherine appreciates that."  
  
"I don't flirt with her." Grissom was still stranded at an earlier point in the conversation. "I don't believe you know how," murmured Greg. "Is there anything else I can do for you Grissom.  
  
"I actually dropped in to tell you to go home, there's not a lot happening and you finish in thirty minutes anyway, so call it a night, OK?"  
  
"Sure Grissom, thanks. Oh, by the way, Grissom."  
  
"Yes Greg?"  
  
"She is."  
  
"Who is what?"  
  
"Sara."  
  
"Goodnight Greg." However, beneath the exasperated tone, Greg could detect the barely suppressed delight, he wondered if this time Grissom would actually do something about it. 


	14. The Apotheosis of Vaudeville

HA!!! Another chapter. 

This one took a tad longer than usual as I started working on my Lady Heather/ Grissom fic: Whip Smart. Go read it, it's only mildly offensive.

Chapter Notes: Scandal, Humour, Luurve and we visit our favourite psycho.

Credits: The Bible [you gotta love the Book of Revelation], Shakespeare, The Clan of Xymox, and more pop culture references than you can shake a stick at.

As always, thanks to my beautiful, loyal and talented Beta Readers [I've never seen them, but they edit so well I'm honoured to give them bonus points]. And yes, Kate, I removed that semi-colon, you happy? [You were right dammit, but still it hurts].

In perhaps the biggest shock, I am happy with this chapter never thought that would happen. To those of you who read this, I hope you enjoy it and if you feel so inclined please review - or send money.

Think not disdainfully of death, but look on it with favour; for even death is one of the things that Nature wills. 

**Marcus Aurelius Antoninus (121 AD - 180 AD), Meditations         **

I know God will not give me anything I can't handle. I just wish that He didn't trust me so much. 

**Mother Teresa (1910 - 1997)**

There is always some madness in love. But there is also always some reason in madness. 

**Friedrich Nietzsche (1844 - 1900), "On Reading and Writing"**

THE APOTHEOSIS OF VAUDEVILLE 

By Agatha Babylon.

Here, in this great city of Las Vegas, we live by the maxim that anything goes. We live our lives to their fullest extent, which is as it should be; but these are troubled times, for in there here and now, there is a person whose anything goes too far, even for this city.

And our police watch.

Reminiscent of the Keystone Cops, our valiant police force flail around like an epileptic in a swimming pool, frantically attempting to thrash in a direction, which gives lie to some semblance of order. Indeed, the direction the police have taken exemplifies the bastard child of chaos theory and a perpetual motion machine. Deputy Dawg, where are you in our hour of need?   

Ladies and Gentleman, I give you the Shakespeare Killer, whom, if given a fiddle, would no doubt lead our city's finest in a rousing square-dance worthy of Oklahoma; as the city burned.      

Our mayor, god bless his Shylockian soul, is more concerned with a budget that produced a two hundred dollar deficit, than he is with catching a machiavellian killer who has butchered more citizens than the number of votes the mayor is going to get when he comes up for re-election.  

If this were theatre, it would close after the opening night, but theatre this bad makes Tom Green look good. Come back John Wilkes Booth, all is forgiven. 

The mayor assures me that he has every available officer on the case, which would be reassuring if he hadn't decimated police numbers by an alarming fifteen percent in their last budget review. The justification? That Las Vegas is safe and that the money can be more effectively spent in other area; like, for example, supporting the city's ailing Dunkin' Donut franchises, which no longer have enough police to support their profits. 

I have no idea what constitutes 'more effective', but not only is the mayor sacrificing the safety of his citizens to some grandiose bureaucratic white elephant, but rumour has it that local underworld figures have nominated the mayor as their Person of the Year, as they reap the benefits of dealing with balding, overweight security guards, whose biggest concern is staving off arteriosclerotic shock at the thought of having to lift their lard-filled buttocks from their sinecure of a 'security' position in order to cry 'stop thief' at the rapidly departing figure who has stolen their last bag of Fritos.  

And the Killer watches.

Recently, I had the dubious pleasure of meeting with one of the city's top criminalists, Mr Gull Grayson. This scientist, this profiler of bugs and decay, saw fit to tell me, Agatha Babylon, your voice, that the investigation was none of my business. That it was in the best interests of the people of Las Vegas, to shut their doors and hide from the truth. I informed this lab dweller, that you, the people of Las Vegas, have the right to know who is butchering your neighbours, who is defiling the inner sanctums of your domestic bliss and he replied that my sensationalism was not helping matters. 

I ask you, dear readers, is the truth sensational? 

If not I, then who? 

Given that police couldn't find their own way home and the mayor thinks you're safe, who in this darkest hour will keep this city informed? It is I, Agatha Babylon, your source for the truth.

"She said what!" Earl Grey tea geysered from the mouth of the mayor as he narrowly missed giving his secretary an unanticipated and equally unwelcome shower. 

"That you were more concerned with your budget and your chances of re-election than the safety of the citizens of Las Vegas."

"….and did she offer anything, which might even remotely be considered as evidence to this effect? I know Babylon is a pernicious little scaremonger and gossip whore, but even by her standards this is going too far."

"Other than your cuts to the police budget?"

"Yes, Yes, other than that. I've already had chapter and verse about that from our beloved Chief of Police; the last thing I need is that bitch channelling Corbin – whom I'm assuming you've called."

"No she didn't" came the reply from the door "But I could hear you frothing at the mouth from my office so decided to pre-empt your sending Mary after me." Calliope grinned evilly, "I take it you've read this morning's paper then?" Not waiting for a response, he continued. "Babylon must really have a stick up her arse over this, what did you say to her this time?"

"I haven't said anything to her, in fact I'm actively avoiding her. The last person to talk to her was you."

"Actually, it wasn't, I got Jim Brass to send one of his CSIs to talk to the woman, unfortunately it sounds like Brass sent Grissom."

"Who or what is a Grissom?"

"Gil Grissom is a CSI shift head and is one of the people heading the scientific side of things with regard to the case."

"You're being less than forthcoming Corbin, what are you trying to not say in so many words?"

Corbin looked pained, "Grissom, whilst brilliant, is not a particularly political creature, and he doesn't suffer fools gladly."

"And this Brass, fed him to the Babylon?"

"Actually, I suggested to Jim that he send Grissom; I didn't actually expect him to do it though."

 "Because…..?" The mayor's tone of voice intimating that the reasons his chief of police had for sending this Grissom had better be pretty damn good or he'd be fed to the crocodiles. This didn't phase the chief in the slightest, used, as he was, to his employer's tantrums.   

"Call it my twisted sense of humour. Grissom tells it like it is, no embellishments no salacious hints or innuendo and that my dear Waldorf, would have driven Babylon and her poisoned-pen mental. Sure, sending Grissom may not have observed all the political niceties, but no-one can accuse us of putting spin on the information."

"So what you're telling me Corbin, is that you deliberately antagonised a reporter with the facts?"

"Something like that boss."

Astoria chuckled. "Some days, Corbin, I love this job, care for a drink?"

She could have sworn that she heard the sound of ironic applause as she rose that morning. Superstition would have indicated that the monster under the bed was mocking her, but being too old for such foolishness she brushed such naiveties aside and let her rational mind berate her for being a fool. Not a fool for speaking from her heart, but for doing so under the influence; confession may indeed be good for the soul, but a confessional bottle of Californian Red tends to mess with your overall perspective.

Today, in the harsh light of reflection, which, in her recovering state was just a tad too enthusiastic, Rilie had things to do; but first coffee. 

Over the steaming mug, she stared meditatively into the fish tank, her black piranha, Aramis, stared back. Rilie was never completely sure what the aggressive little bugger was thinking but assumed that it involved sizing his mistress up as a potential meal. Aramis had it easy she thought, sleep, swim around and occasionally maim anything that had the temerity to enter his bowl. Rilie wished her life was as uncomplicated, but as she didn't live in a bowl it was moot point – and it was unlikely that Aramis would be willing to share. 

Rilie, felt a certain envy of her piranha, at the very least she certainly missed maiming people; not in a graphic, physical sense, that left people with their entrails decoratively entwined in the nearest tree, but in the sense of verbally massacring their sad attempts at logic, humour or polite conversation. Her verbal skills had come from her late mother, who had kept clan Andrews in line with a tongue that made razor wire look pathetically ineffective. Rilie sometimes wondered if it wasn't the effect of her mother's tongue that had made her brothers what they were; constantly competing to prove that they were indeed paragons of maleness and as such constantly battling against the verbal castration administered on a daily basis. Then again, her mother was Irish, and came from a long line of women who claimed to have a bit of the ban sidhe residing in the blood; and, after hearing Mrs Andrews dress down her husband on a Friday night when he came home from the pub, there were few people who would challenge her on the point. 

While Rilie had inherited her mother's temper, she had, however, also inherited her father's patience, which explained why she normally allowed people enough rope to well and truly hang themselves. Yet for some reason, the rope Greg had given her - in copious amounts, she added mordantly – was being used to hang herself, and while Rilie was not inherently masochistic, the idea of hanging sounded remarkably like a statement of affirmative action even if it did tend towards the slightly melodramatic. 

If Rilie had had a magic wand she would have made the events of the previous evening nothing more than a dream. If she hadn't hacked the music school records, if she hadn't had the argument with Cass, if she hadn't got drunk, then none of this would have happened. She sighed mightily, that was an awful lot of 'if' and a whole lot of poor me, and it was that situation that Rilie didn't know how to deal with;

now there were consequences, large Sanders-shaped consequences. 

Control was second nature to her, it was the one thing her brothers, bastards all, had taught her.

"Never let your guard down, kid" this from Joe, the oldest. "You let people in and you give them the chance to hurt you, you give up your emotions to someone you become their slave". 

Mike, the youngest of her brothers, yet still eight years her senior, had put it more simply, "As soon as you start to care you lose."

What it really came down to though, was control, control of the situation, control of any and all available knowledge and most importantly a rigid control of one's emotions. She loved her family, the whole dysfunctional bunch, but it was no wonder every damn one of her brothers was divorced; they wouldn't know an honest emotion if it robbed them at knifepoint. Now here she was, from a family background more emotionally barren than the Alaskan Tundra, trying to make sense of the fact that a funny looking guy with a smart mouth pushed her buttons. 

She wasn't sure what was worse; that she didn't want to admit that Greg got her all hot and bothered, or that she didn't know how; the call was a case in point. After summoning large amounts of Dutch courage unto herself, she had slipped away from the increasingly raucous group of women and decided to tell Greg that she was interested in him. Whether he was interested in her was less important, certainly it would be nice, and she wanted it to be the case, but for her the important issue was one of confronting her emotions, for only through confrontation could she master them and regain control of the situation.

…..And as for that phone call, well Rilie would gladly volunteer for the French Foreign Legion if it would only expunge the memory of making a complete arse out of herself. Hindsight was a wonderful thing most of the time, but in this instance it caused Rilie to regard her actions as only slightly less horrific that a multi-car pile up involving a tanker of water and a truck carrying dehydrated potato flakes. For something that was so meticulously scripted – well five minutes and a glass of red – things had fallen apart rather spectacularly as soon as the answer phone message ended.  

Sipping her coffee, she thought about how much easier things had been before Sanders had tried to run her down. Maybe it was a portent of things to come, that her relationship woes should be initiated by a near accident. Actually, her nemesis - thinking of Greg as such conjured a ghost of a smile – was more than an accident, he was a disaster in waiting and for the life of her she couldn't understand how she could be so attracted to someone who routinely displayed all the grace and poise of a jelly in a high wind. Maybe it was that clichéd 'opposites attracting' thing, although all that she could definitely confirm was that Greg was attracted to anything that came in a D-Cup.

To say that Rilie was cynical about men would be to open oneself to accusations of gross understatement; again the source was familial in nature. As she had grown she had seen each of her brothers utilise just about every scam in the known universe in order to gain access to the contents of their latest conquest's panties, and more often than not they succeeded, the Andrews family charm being a not inconsiderable force of nature – at least when away from their mother. For the brothers' Andrews the latest conquest was but an ongoing part of their interminable and often ill-tempered rivalry; the only time it had backfired being when three of her brothers contracted syphilis from the same girl within a two-week period. 

Rilie had watched, absorbed every technique her brothers used and decided that men, at least when their genitals were controlling their actions, were not to be trusted. This didn't mean that she lived like a nun, far from it in fact, but, to put it bluntly, she fucked on her terms, no one else's.  

That Greg, fixated with her breasts as he was in her opinion, hadn't tried any lines or tactics to get her into bed confused her. She knew he found her attractive – well she was fairly certain he did…..maybe…..well he better dammit, but how was she supposed to deal with him if he resolutely refused to make a fool out of himself; well more of a fool than usual anyway.  

"So what do you think I should do Aramis?" The piranha didn't answer, although his increasing agitation indicated that it was feeding time, well it was either that or he was indicating a desperate need to get out of his bowl and head somewhere far far away from the self-pitying creature that wouldn't shut up; piranha were not known for their empathy. 

The simple truth of the matter was that Rilie desperately wanted to feel something; and here, with Greg right in front of her, she was just too scared to admit it. 

On the other side of town an equally bleary-eyed individual struggled from the debris of his bed and headed for the coffee pot; cat in tow. It hadn't been a particularly restful night for Greg, and an even less restful one for Benzene, who had eventually given up on the bed after being kicked across the room for the fifth or sixth time.  

Flicking on the radio, he flopped at the kitchen table and mentally urged the jug to boil faster while Benzene contemplated whether or not clawing the wreck seated at the table was tactically advisable in order to acquire breakfast. The food slave had been acting strangely lately and as such Benzene wasn't prepared to undertake an action, which may have potentially resulted in the non-appearance of breakfast.

As the kettle began its inevitable whistling crescendo, Greg mechanically assembled the plunger and grabbed the coffee from the cupboard, pausing just long enough to deposit Benzene's food in her bowl. Slumping back into his chair, he found himself humming along with the song on the radio. As is often the case, the song on the radio echoed his mood and he silently wondered if some higher power had tuned in to his personal frequency.

  
_They say "trust on us"  
They say " our time will come"  
And " your dreams will come alive"  
One day, we will find   
No way to cross this line  
It's where our worlds collide_

But which worlds?  His? Certainly his life had undergone some serious upheaval in the last six months, but was he on a collision course, and if so, with whom? Rilie? The lab? Or was it that Prof. Mueller had decided to end his existence once and for all?   Certainly, Greg knew that he was changing, that he was achieving a degree of maturity that granted him a previously hidden perspective and a perspective that left him knowing that despite the music, that despite everything, in some ways he no longer knew who he was – or at least where he was going. 

Maybe Rilie was part of the answer.

   
_This world is not made for you and I  
It's build on blood and a million lies_

Rilie's call from the night before had only precipitated the inevitable, that he would have to face how he felt about her. At heart, Greg was a romantic, however, at the lab he had hidden behind the mask of a serial flirt letting people believe that he was desperate for the slightest invitation, eventually even that pose had died as he tried to assume a more professional mien. The unfortunate, yet inevitable result of this subterfuge was that Greg had grown unaccustomed to expressing his innermost thoughts to anyone other than Benzene; Benzene, being a cat, would have simply preferred being fed more often. 

While Greg didn't doubt how he thought he felt about Rilie – well he was at least prepared to admit that he was interested – he did doubt how he felt about himself. Did he really want to throw himself into the emotional uncertainties of a relationship now that he was getting his life into a semblance of what he considered order?

At the very least, Greg knew that he needed to talk to Rilie; the sooner the better too. Rilie was, Greg had discovered in the past months, a touchy, prideful person when her personal reputation was put at stake, it didn't matter if it was study or personally related, he just knew that she hated looking like a fool and the longer the situation was left unaddressed the worse it became. The irony of it all was that that the standards Rilie interpreted as foolish for herself were several orders of magnitude more stringent that for everyone else, which perhaps, thought Greg, was why she tolerated him.

Taking a fortifying sip of his coffee, Greg first found and then began to search the telephone directory for Rilie's number. Knowing that she lived on the other side of town made the process of winnowing the correct Andrews' out of the list a bit less troublesome but the end result listed five people named R. Andrews that may or may not have been Rilie. 

Several calls later and Greg was no closer to finding his target although he had talked to a garrulous Italian Pizzeria owner and a very nice lady who charged by the minute, neither of whom was, or knew of, a Rilie Andrews, although the nice lady said she'd try. It was with the fourth number on his list that Greg was successful with what seemed an interminable period of ringing finally halted by a blunt 'What?' as the phone was answered. 

"Rilie?"

"Maybe, who is this?"

"It's Greg."

"Greg?…...Oh Shit!!, Greg…..hi" Greg could almost hear Rilie cringe audibly when she figured out who it was.

"Hi Rilie, I……er…..got your message last night, and I…..um, wanted to talk to you."

"Oh." 

In that single syllable, doubt, anticipation and a hint of vulnerability were shouted from the rooftops. Above all, however, was a sense of dread, a fear that having made herself vulnerable she now had to accept whatever consequences may come.

"Don't sound so worried, I'm not upset. Surprised, but not angry or anything, at first I thought it was a joke…..until you started crying that is; then I just felt bad."

"You just had to remind me that I was crying didn't you? It's like it's not bad enough that I call you completely off my head, but then I burst into tears. I swear I'm never going to touch a drop of alcohol again as long as I live."

"So you didn't really mean it then…..that you are interested….."

"No…..I mean yes…..I mean…..um…..that I do…..er…..like you but I…...um…..wasn't quite prepared to announce it quite like….." Rilie's voice trailed of uncomfortably "…..That."

The sound of Greg sweating nervously was clearly audible, his increasingly rapid, shallow breathing telling Rilie that she wasn't the only one right on the edge of bolting like a startled deer.

"I'm interested too…..not that I want to pressure you or anything, but I would like to possibly discuss it a bit…...if that's what you want too."

Greg was fast losing patience with himself; he hadn't been this pathetic since he was fourteen and trying to hide his Playboy collection from his first girlfriend. For her part, Rilie wasn't feeling any more confident. 

"Well, how does coffee sound?" This, in stereo, as both parties reached a similar conclusion as to how to best discuss things – although on reflection, coffee may not have been the wisest choice of beverage considering how on edge both parties were likely to be: yet the truly desperate will grasp at any straw that may grant them the chance at redemption. 

After viciously suppressing the desire to do a victory dance around the kitchen, Greg remembered to ask Rilie when and where.

"When and where what?" – It sounded like Rilie had been doing a little celebrating of her own as she sounded slightly winded.

"Coffee."

"Oh yes, coffee. Tomorrow morning? Usual time? Anyways, at least before your class with Mueller, you're worse than useless after that."

"Gee thanks."

"Well it's true; the war-frenzy of the Philistines has nothing on you after that class. Short of electro-shock therapy I can't think what Mueller must do to you to put you in that sort of mood and I sure as hell am not drinking coffee with you as some sort of penance."

Caught somewhere between laughter and embarrassment, Greg agreed, "Before class it is, and Rilie, please try and wake up more than ten minutes before we meet, I don't want to spend the first twenty minutes trying to return you to state vaguely resembling consciousness."

"Hey! I'm not that bad!"

"Of course you're not."

"Sarcastic much?"

"Who me?"

"No, my Aunt Martha."

"You calling me Martha?"

"Bye Greg."

"Alright, later."

Cradling the receiver in his hand as the line went dead, Greg was caught between euphoria and terror, and it was only the judiciously applied claws of Benzene that brought him back to reality before his coffee got cold.

There is a subtle majesty about even the humblest church.  

"Forgive me Father, for I have sinned, it has been eighteen months since my last confession."

It may be the beauty of stained glass or the respectful silence.

"Speak my son, what brings you to the house of God?"

Or it may be that God is indeed present.

"I have killed Father. I will kill again."

"Seriously now, why are you here?"

"So I looked and behold, a pale horse. And the name of him who sat on it was Death. I am Death, Father, and I cannot be stopped. I cannot stop myself for I am bound to the wheel."

"Why son? Why have you killed?"

"Because it is written that I must. 'If you prick us, do we not bleed? If you tickle us, do we not laugh? If you poison us, do we not die? And if you wrong us, shall we not revenge?"

"Lord have mercy, you are he."

"I am legion, and the voices will not let me go. Father, in this time, in this place I bring you a warning, the bitter harvest is sown, and soon I must reap. This must be and it must not."

"Can you not turn yourself in?"

"They will not let me. Be my voice Father, be my voice."

"I'll pray for you son."

The answer was only silence.


	15. Don't Annoy the Pigeons

Well, this one took me a bit longer, been busy at work. Been busy buying a house. Been busy planning my incipient wedding. 

Been writing a few other fics too.

All mistakes in this final draft are mine – god alone knows where my beta has gone, probably fell into a black hole or something. Either that or she ran out of coffee and imploded.

I quite like this chapter, filled as it is with stunning repartee and wondrous character development……and speaking of development, two or three chapters to go. The next chapter will be "THE COFFEE DATE", very exciting. 

For the perverts amongst you, Rilie and Greg will not be having sex in this fic, Melindotty is reading this fic and she's too young to know what sex is [and I am now in sooooo much trouble].

As always, I hope you enjoy this chapter and that you signify your enjoyment with vast amounts of reviews and/ or abuse…..[If you hate the chapter please abuse me, it gets the review numbers up J]

_No trophy, no flowers, no flashbulbs, no wine,  
He's haunted by something he cannot define.  
Bowel-shaking earthquakes of doubt and remorse,  
Assail him, impale him with monster-truck force.  
In his mind, he's still driving, still making the grade.  
She's hoping in time that her memories will fade.  
Cause he's racing and pacing and plotting the course,  
He's fighting and biting and riding on his horse.  
The sun has gone down and the moon has come up,  
And long ago somebody left with the cup.  
But he's striving and driving and hugging the turns.  
And thinking of someone for whom he still burns. _

CAKE 'The Distance' 

**_November 26_**  
Today I made a Black Forest cake out of five pounds of cherries and a live  
beaver, challenging the very definition of the word "cake." I was very  
pleased. Malraux said he admired it greatly, but could not stay for  
dessert. Still, I feel that this may be my most profound achievement yet,  
and have resolved to enter it in the Betty Crocker Bake-Off.

**The Jean-Paul Sartre Cookbook – Author Unknown.**

The man who appeared at the desk of the on-duty serjeant appeared to be part of the interminable mass of homogeneity that appeared in and around the police station every day. There were two distinguishing exceptions: the first was that the man was neither in handcuffs, nor accompanied by a loud-mouth lawyer in a sharkskin suit, which when you consider it is really two things. The third exception of the two was that the man was a priest, and as such was accorded the level of respect generally reserved members of the clergy by all and sundry, that is, virtually none, although the generously-endowed, snaggle-toothed hooker's derisory 'Make way for the alcoholic paedophile' was probably taking things a bit far.

While perhaps a tad wounded, the priest showed little discomfort at the pejorative raining down upon him, although those closest to him would have heard a murmured 'yea though I walk through the valley of death, I shall fear no ignorance.'  - ('Forgive them father, they're a bunch of cretins' – while closer to what he was thinking was probably a tad presumptuous).

The Desk-Serjeant had watched the approach of the priest with a degree of amusement, amusement in the sense that he enjoyed watching any ostensibly law-abiding person navigating the human flotsam and jetsam of the squad room without the benefit of obvious weaponry.

"Good morning Father, what can I do for you?"

"Good morning Serjeant, I was wondering if I could speak to a detective."

"With reference to what Father, we're a little busy for pastoral guidance at the moment."

The priest gave the serjeant a grimly amused look; "I'll deal with your immortal soul later if you're really interested. Last night I had a visitor, a rather troubled visitor."

"That's not so unusual Father, it's your job to deal with wayward sheep and the like is it not."

"True enough, but there are only so many of my wayward sheep who have a fondness for Shakespeare – if you take my meaning."

The gently teasing demeanour of the policeman was immediately by a professional gravitas. "Seriously now Father, this isn't something to joke about."

"Do I look like I'm joking?" Truth be told, the priest looked as serious as the Pope at a swingers party, but that didn't dissuade the policeman from displaying a well-honed suspicion, used as he was to numerous psychiatric patients and wannabes claiming to be everything from Jesus Christ to Osama bin Laden. While it was true that the priest didn't appear to be exuding any noticeable nervous tics or otherwise identifiable signs of being off his head, the serjeant hadn't earnt his stripes for being stupid.    

"Very well then Father, if you'll wait there," he indicated a chair next to a large, leather-clad gentleman with 'Mum' tattooed on his forehead, I'll call for a detective to have a word with you." 

Shrugging non-committally, the priest took a seat and tried to ignore the behemoth next to him, who smelt even worse than he looked. 

Several minutes passed before a fresh-faced, elegantly, and indeed somewhat fastidiously, tailored young woman emerged from the area behind the reception desk; she scanned the reception area briefly before her eyes came to rest on the priest, a moments uncertainty was replaced by the surety that it was indeed this priest she had been summoned to talk to – and not one of the three men whom had already claimed to be Jesus that particular morning. In approaching the priest, her manner gave clear indication as to her feelings about being in the reception area, such was the relation between the care with which she stepped and her determination not to touch anyone or thing and the numerous photo opportunities granted to politicians visiting an AIDS ward or a leper colony.

She halted within range of his personal space, close, but no closer than absolutely necessary, which considering the grotesque leer the behemoth was giving her was unsurprising, and completely justified. "Father….?" She inquired.

"Yes."

"If you'll come this way please" she gestured to the area behind reception, "We'll be able to talk with a little more privacy."  

Nodding his assent, the Priest followed in her wake. 

The walled off area behind reception was a stark contrast to the reception area itself, whilst the reception area could have doubled as a landfill in an emergency, the area behind bespoke an almost fanatic devotion to sterility – and not just in terms of cleanliness. The young woman, indicated to the Priest that he should seat himself at the desk indicated, a desk he noted that was laid out with a precision more autistic than organised.

Taking a seat, the woman addressed herself to her subject "Now, Father…..", obviously prompting him for a name.

"Richter, Father Nathaniel Richter, from Saint Debacles, and might I inquire as to who you might be?" The only response he received was an infinitesimal flick of an index finger in the direction of a nameplate, which identified a Detective Helene O'Troy.

"Now Father, the Desk Serjeant informed me that you have some information for us."

"Yes, that's correct, last night, while holding confession, I was visited by, someone, shall we say, whom has turned their face from the Lord."

"I daresay that would describe a good many of us Father, but that's neither here nor there, can you be a bit more specific?"

The Priest assumed a strained expression knowing that he was treading a fine line between his sacred oaths and the charge he had been given. "He said he has killed, and then he quoted something, a verse from a play; The Merchant of Venice."

That one phrase immediately captured the detective's attention, attuned as every police officer in the city was to anything even remotely 'bard-like'. "So you think you were visited by the Shakespeare Killer, Father? What makes you so sure, it could easily have been a prank."

"It wasn't. Call it professional knowledge detective. There's a rather large difference between someone confessing that they haven't been to mass since Moses was a boy and, someone politely informing you that they've killed. If hear enough confessions you learn the difference."

"It could have been someone who merely thought they were the Shakespeare Killer, someone delusional, delusional enough to speak with the conviction of the truth."

"Certainly, there is that possibility."

"So what can you tell me about this person?"

"Nothing."

"So you've come down here to inform us that you think you were paid a visit by the most wanted person in the city and yet you can't tell me anything about them."        

Father Richter grimaced; the other shoe was about to fall. "It's not so much I can't detective, as I won't."

"You…..won't?"  

"The sanctity of the confessional I'm afraid, I can't say anything about my visitor…..."

"Other than the fact that you're here telling me that you were visited," she interjected sarcastically.

"No, I'm here because he asked me to pass on a warning; that the killings are going to escalate." 

"OK then, how did he sound?"

"Sorry, can't tell you?"

"Can't or won't?"

"Well…..the later. That might identify him."

"But don't you want this person, and I use that term advisedly, caught?"

"Yes, of course."

"Then tell me about them."

"No."

"How about I charge you with obstruction, Father."

"If that is what you feel you must do detective, then charge me, but then I would have to ask you as to what precisely I am obstructing. I am freely telling you what I can, yet surely you must recognise that the sanctity of the confessional is protected as securely as doctor-patient privilege."

 It is perhaps a valid observation that the best way to understand human nature is to observe opposites in action and at this point in time the cool, unruffled exterior of the Father Richter was a distinct and vivid counterpoint to the increasingly agitated Detective whom it appeared was in danger of imploding. Through gritted teeth, the detective made another effort.

"Alright Father, can you tell me how your visitor sounded."

"Sad. In fact you might say regretful."

"Actually, I meant could you describe their voice for me."

"No. Please detective, try to understand, I am not doing this to deliberately spite you. The vows of my Holy Office state that the sanctity of the confessional is total. By even coming here I am treading an extremely thin line but for the fact that my visitor told me to be their voice, which I interpreted to mean pass on the warning they had given me. I can not and will not attempt to identify them for you, neither will you be allowed to send an evidentiary team to the church."

"But….."

"I'm sorry detective. I understand, truly I do. When I leave here, I am going to see my Bishop and try to explain to him why I have seen you first. Understand this detective, we are all God's children, even monsters like the man you're after and as such he is entitled to the love and protection of the mother church as much as you are," the Priest sighed, "Perhaps even more so. At any rate, I can't actually prove that the man you seek is the same man who came to visit, what I can tell you is that he scared me, and detective, you should be scared too."

Father Richter rose from his seat opposite the detective, gave her a small, sad smile and left. The detective, for her part, neither moved nor spoke, instead she simply stared at the place where the priest had been sitting moments before and tried to figure out precisely where her day had gone so wrong.  

Across town, and several hours later, Gil Grissom was still stuck behind his desk. While it was true that the night shift finished at 7AM, it was coming up on performance appraisal time and as a consequence he was buried in truly stupendous amounts of paperwork His sense of relief was almost palpable when Jim Brass stuck his head around the door.

"Got a minute?"

"Several. In fact, many; take them, they're yours."

"Really, you're too generous. You know, you've been spending far too much time with Lady Heather lately, if you get any more sardonic you'll end up sipping black coffee in Paris."

Grissom gestured meaningfully at the paper in front of him, "That certainly holds some measure of attraction at this point in time. Anyway, what can I do for you?"

"Couple of things. The kid that survived?" Grissom's nod indicated that knew the kid to whom Brass was referring. "Well, the doctors' have decreed that he's OK to speak to the police, so expect some sort of information soon. Assuming of course we can get his father, who is showing all the signs of being more paranoid than the doctors, to be OK with it."

"You're surprised by this?" Grissom murmured.

"By what?"

"That a man who's had his wife, now deceased, and his son nailed to a wall by a maniac, feels somewhat anxious about having his son questioned by the police; to slip into lingua-Greg for a second, 'hello, traumatised much?'"

Brass looked slightly abashed, his wrinkled face taking on the character of a bemused raisin as he considered what Grissom had said. "Well, there is that I guess, I kind of forgot about the empathy thing in the haze of having a live witness to question."

"Jim, the child is four years old."

"Small words and simple sentences have never failed me yet how else do you think I explained things to Mobley?"

Grissom manfully swallowed a malicious smirk, "And what other gem of information do you bring to my sadly overburdened desk."

"Enough with the melodrama Gil, I'm just a poor, lowly-paid detective, it is not within my demesne to deal with the vicissitudes thrown at me by one such as yourself….."

Grissom signalled his surrender and the detective continued in a more serious vein. "It would seem that our favourite murderer has recently paid God a visit."

"You mean he's dead."

"No. He went to confession" deadpanned Brass.

"You're joking."

"Does a face like this look like it's joking?"

"Well that's true" Grissom conceded. "Anyway, back to the matter at hand, what has the priest told us?"

"Nothing. He's claiming something called 'The sanctity of the confessional'."

"That's priest speak for doctor-patient privilege. Can we examine the confessional?"

"According to the diocese, and I quote, 'Not in this lifetime'."

"So it wasn't a priest you spoke to then?"

"No, actually it was an old friend of yours, Jeremiah Doom."

"Oh joy, oh celebration."

"My thoughts entirely."

"Do we have any 'useful' information."

"Other than our friend with the knives and the nail gun telling our tight-lipped friend with the collar that he was stepping up a gear: no."

Grissom sighed; in light of this latest information performance appraisals were looking pretty damn attractive.   

*******

Even as dusk neared, and the omnipresent fear of his work filled people's hearts and minds, the park was full. Overweight joggers gamely propelled their bulk in ever-decreasing circles, harried mothers, bearing more than a passing resemblance to a frenzied octopus, attempted to attract their assorted offspring to them in much the same way a planet attempts to captivate rogue satellites and middle-aged men, who should have known better, sought to re-capture their youth in a bizarre and strangely sad eulogy to what was once football. 

On the edge of the park he sat, surrounded by a multitude of accusatory pigeons who vied testily with each other for whatever morsel he had to give. Surrounded, as he was, solely by his avian brethren spoke eloquently to him of his lack of human contact and the void of his loneliness filled him; yet he could only watch wistfully as an attractive woman passed by him, failing to notice the appreciative glance she gave him.

"Kill her."  The other pigeons had formed a circle about a large, white-breasted bird, who addressed himself directly to the man on the park bench. Its eyes glowed redly in agitation and it clacked its beak aggressively. "You exist at our pleasure, you will obey."

The man's shuttered visage twisted in self-loathing and regret, "I cannot do this any more, my soul cries out against it."

"You have no soul. Fool! We took your soul, it, like your pitiful physical shell are ours. Did you really think we would not notice as you crawled, yellow-bellied to the house of the apostate? Do you really think that that pathetic excuse for a god, that mortal monument to self-pity and guilt could save you from your appointed task? We chose not to punish you for that indiscretion, but we knew, we knew and we are angry; have no doubt, there will be an accounting."

A smaller pigeon steeped forward, its white plumage a sharp contract to the emerald green of its eyes. Where the first bird bespoke wrath this animal evinced tranquillity. "My brother is angry, you would do well to heed him. Do not think we do not understand your fear and your hesitation, for we do. However, it is not our place to care just as it is not your place to question you must do what is right, what is ordained."

"But why, lady? Surely there is another way?"

"If there was another way would we not have told you? What reason have we to lead you astray we are you after all. Never forget, man creates their own gods….. and their own monsters."

The man's reluctance was obvious as was his distaste. "But what of my life? What of me, am I no more than just a tool?"

The angry hiss of a thousand birds was silenced by the voice of a third. "We are all tools, we all serve, even ones such as us. Heed us, do as we command for you know that in the end it is easier for all." The voice paused, when it spoke again its tone was wry, "Let me amend that last comment, it is easier for us insofar as we don't want to have to kill you and find another servant; and following our word is easier for you in that we assume you'd rather not be dead; not of course that we care, you are little better than a slave."

Thoroughly cowed, he knelt. "What must I do?"

"There are many whom we would have meet our justice, but we command the first as tribute, as penance. Her voice is heard throughout and silence shall be her gift. Listen carefully slave, the first you shall harvest is the one known as Babylon."

**************

Being back on shift was a relief after the emotional tribulations of the last few days; admittedly Greg had the impending coffee meeting with Rilie tomorrow but that incipient doom was safely subsumed by a mountain of work and an ongoing mantra decipherable to the casual observer as 'Not thinking about it'. Brass had noted that Greg better not let Grissom catch him not thinking and Greg had responded that Grissom had to deal with Nick on a regular basis so he couldn't see the problem. The battered detective dead-panned something about how Greg shouldn't confuse mindless enthusiasm with not thinking and the lab tech, raising his hands in good humour, returned to his acid-filled beakers. 

Since he'd been back, Greg had found that he'd developed a certain antipathy to the Texan. It wasn't work related, for despite his bantering with Brass, Greg respected Nick's work; however, he was of the opinion that the same professional courtesy wasn't returned. Perhaps that was the crux of the matter, Nick had a real stick up his arse about hierarchy and Greg's return as an ostensible consultant offended his ordering of the universe. Yet where Greg previously would have taken the slights and acid glances without comment, he now found himself prepared to tell Nick where he could stick his opinions; albeit in a tactful, professional manner.

The one person that Greg had found himself gravitating towards since his return was, somewhat surprisingly, Brass. Despite presenting a countenance gruffer than a bear with stolen porridge and a visage more weathered than tree bark, the older man was not only a steadying presence but a strangely comforting one, his age and experience silently conveying to Greg, that when he had seen what Brass had seen then he could say that his life was tough; it put romantic entanglements and sadistic composition lecturers into a more realistic perspective. 

Doc Robbins was another whom Greg was coming to know better. In his previous incarnation in the lab, the young technician had found little reason to move outside the confines of his lab, not only in terms of it made it less likely Grissom would yell at him, but it was where the coffee was, and despite the fact that it was well hidden he wanted to leave nothing to chance having discovered overenthusiastic and less morally punctilious colleague launching their own expeditions during his visits to the gentleman's facilities. Now, with greater confidence and Grissom's blessing, Greg was apt to wander and more often than not he wound up in the morgue talking to the Doctor about things forensic and otherwise. Doc Robbins was different from Captain Brass insofar as he had managed to retain a positive view of life and hadn't descended into the world-weary cynicism that characterised many of his colleague's views; Greg wasn't sure why this was so but tentatively concluded that the long and successful marriage the Doctor enjoyed as well as the good relations he had with his children provided him with a light at the end of the tunnel. Greg had learned early on not to mention Brass' family to him insofar as relations with his ex-wife were hardly of the Norman Rockwell school of happy families, and his daughter resembled an oncoming train more than any other luminescence.    

This night, however, Greg was alone. Brass had gone to investigate a failed murder-suicide muttering something about doing the world a favour and killing the idiot himself as he left. The CSIs were out and about on various cases and weren't expected back for several hours - unless of course something miraculous happened, like the second coming or every criminal in the city spontaneously surrendering themselves. As for the Doc, well tonight he'd taken off to attend his oldest daughter's graduation. Like her dad, she'd studied medicine, unlike her father, however, she'd majored in paediatrics, her decision essentially made for her after making the mistake of visiting him in the morgue one evening when he was trying to untangle six bodies that had been pulled out of a trunk found floating in the local lake, and which resembled nothing more than human consommé.

Having finished the work he could and having not found a way to soup-up the mass spectrometer, Greg found himself at a loose and contemplative end. An hour and two coffees later, Greg was completely wired, and somewhat winded, having beaten Archie and David in a chair race around the building. Settling back into his chair in the lab his eyes came to rest on Grissom's file for the Shakespeare Killer, which was waiting for the Mass-spec analysis that Greg was currently running. Since Greg had returned to the lab he had made a conscious effort not to look at the case files associated with the work he was doing, it wasn't that he didn't care, or indeed that he had no interest, but that he acknowledged a lingering resentment that his past enthusiasm and suggestions had resulted in reprimands instead of praise, nevertheless, he found himself slowly leafing through the pages of the file trying to make sense of the depravity held within.

What most disturbed the young man was the dispassion with which he regarded the captured images before him, the depicted suffering and torture, the sublimation of human dignity to a gross manifestation of the macabre. Greg couldn't bring himself to understand why someone would act in such a manner, he had no personal experience that would relate as being in the lab presented only the fragmentary glimpse of a wider picture, for his, in the purest sense, was a science without context, only data. A younger Greg would have been concerned that the actions of the killer did not horrify him, but for this version of the man the parade of desecrated bodies was merely another example of how civilisation was slowly and inevitably going off the rails. Truth be told, what most disturbed Greg, was that he wasn't disturbed at all and that the images merely raised his curiosity; obviously too much time spent listening to Mueller threatening to disembowel the composition class.

The young man smirked inwardly as the idea of Mueller stalking the city of Las Vegas 

engendered an interesting mental picture, one Dali would have been proud of.. Somewhat sadly, he dismissed the image; for while identifying Mueller as the Shakespeare killer would have solved the case - and necessitated the hiring of a new composition teacher - it wasn't really practical.

Moving past the pictures, Greg read through the case notes and finding nothing of interest began to examine the lines of investigation followed in the years previous. 

It was standard fare. 

Recently released criminals had made up a large part of the initial investigation but as their non-eviscerated parole officers were able to prove, none of them had developed a personality, or even a career change, that would necessitate a sudden shift into the homicidally maniacal. Similarly, recently escaped criminals had also proven to be a negative line of inquiry and the particularly desperate detective who'd raided the local

Juvenile detention centre had stretched the patience of the Parole and Corrections Services to the limit. Even gangs on PCP had been ruled out.

Psychiatric patients had also come in for intense scrutiny with particular attention paid to the more rabidly inclined. Again, nothing; with the only release at the appropriate time being the eighty year old who thought he was Napoleon's butler and who was probably more a danger to himself than the world at large. Outpatient lists had also been closely scrutinised and as far as social and police services had been able to determine there was no-one in the community-at-large who constituted a danger – unless, Greg thought, someone had stopped taking their medication. Yet even if someone had stopped their medication it would have been noted and that hypothesis couldn't explain the periods of inactivity, those years when nothing had happened, when no-one had died. Then Greg remembered that Ecklie had rambled on about pills before he went into his coma and he began to wonder….. 


	16. The Conversation

Well, at long last another chapter. I have a reasonable excuse, my partner and I bought a house so were tied up playing bank and lawyer tennis. We've also been planning our wedding which happens on Sept 6, thus this is the only chapter you get for a while cos I'll be swanning around Spain and Italy for six weeks – sucks to be me huh? I promise to take a notebook tho and I'll write while sipping good red wine – yep, really sucks to be me.

Yes I know this is short by my usual standards but I wanted to capture the conversation between Greg and Rilie in insolation; you'll have to sue me for being a romantic.

I do appreciate the patience of the two people left reading this fic.

BTW: To whomever nominated my fic for the Greg Sanders Appreciation society awards, thank you, I'm flattered you feel it's worth it

Thanks as always to my wonderful beta 'tasha, whom, despite having a husband and children still, has the patience to read my unedited writing. You gotta love a beta who gets your jokes [either that or feel sorry for her] 

All snakes who wish to remain in Ireland will please raise their right hands

Saint Patrick 

A hypothetical paradox:  
What would happen in a battle between an Enterprise security  
team, who always get killed soon after appearing, and a squad of  
Imperial Stormtroopers, who can't hit the broad side of a planet?  
**Tom Galloway**

We are all agreed that your theory is crazy. The question, which  
divides us, is whether it is crazy enough to have a chance of being  
correct. My own feeling is that it is not crazy enough.  
**Niels Bohr**

It was a beautiful day, the sun was shining, the birds were singing and those few, brave souls that had managed to rouse themselves this early went about their business with a bleary-eyed determination that bespoke discipline rather than any significant measure of enthusiasm. The only hint of disharmony in this placid scene was an unholy cacophony as the Edith Piaf medley coming from the café's speakers clashed violently with a lone piper plying his craft outside the nearby science block. 

 Into this aural assault strode a man, a man of determined mien; if it had been a small town in a generic western mothers would have been pulling their children off the streets and shops along the main street pulling their blinds down for this was obviously a man with a mission. But lo, there were no moustachioed men in black hats in sight and the undertaker wasn't around to rub his hands in a grotesque parody of concern, so the non-existent townspeople breathed a sigh of relief and returned to their celluloid existence.

Our hero, however, was not so composed as appearances would suggest. A brief précis of his thoughts, if one was gifted – or indeed cursed – with telepathy, would have revealed an incomprehensible stream of gibberish consisting largely of 'oh god', 'oh shit' and 'run away before she bites me'.  

Despite his terror, his fear of rejection and indeed his expectation of being mauled and spat out like a feline hairball, Greg had dressed for the occasion. It should be noted, however, that Greg's concept of dressing for the occasion and that of the average person were light years apart, and thus Greg looked like he'd dressed in a blender; a large, active blender of malicious intent. Fortunately, the staff at the café, made Greg look relatively normal, insofar as their standard attire was deemed to come from the Psychedelic Nightmare school of Hawaiian shirt design, and thus by comparison, Greg was able to quietly seat himself at a table without causing undue alarm to the more conservatively inclined clientele.  

As Greg had, through his brief scholastic sojourn, come to be regarded as a regular by the cafe staff, he didn't have to wait long for service. Today, service was provided by what appeared to be a failed genetic experiment in part comprising various elements of a parrot, an orang-utan and what was unmistakeably some kind of feather duster; most days it answered to Tim.

"'Lo Greg."

"Tim"

"Usual?"

"Make it four shots."

"'Kay. Can we expect Little Miss Sunshine?"

"Yep, Rilie should be here shortly."

"Care to make a mood prediction?"

"Are you serious?"

"Never hurts to ask. Health and safety is a primary concern of this establishment, With Rilie around I feel neither healthy or safe; anyway, her usual?"

"Yep"

"On you?"

Greg shrugged, "Why not?"

"Probably 'cos she'd gut you if you didn't have it waiting for her when she arrived."

"True."

"Right, won't be long."

"Cheers Tim."

True to his word, Tim was back within two minutes bearing the requested cups of coffee, the hissing and snarling emanating from Greg's testament to the strength of his brew. The arrival of the coffee was followed almost instantaneously by the arrival of Rilie, who, whilst appearing to be awake said nothing until she'd inhaled half of the demi-tasse that waited upon her pleasure. 

Greg flicked a glance across to the counter where Tim merely raised an appreciative eyebrow as if to indicate that Greg had indeed made the smart choice. Returning his gaze to his companion he was somewhat unnerved to find her regarding him in much the same way that a hawk regards a small rodent whom it is considering in the same light as a Frenchman regards a plate of snails.  

Deciding that if they were talking it would give Rilie less of a chance to scare him, Greg bravely initiated conversation.

"So, here we are then." 

"Well, there's a clichéd start to the morning."

Greg grinned, "You can do better I suppose?"

"Of course, but I'd need more coffee, the neurons, which control metaphor and the general descriptive process, are currently dormant." 

"I thought we agreed that you going to be awake when you got here."

"Do you see toothpicks?"

"True enough but you know the zombies from the evil dead?" Rilie indicated her assent, gesturing, albeit warily, for her companion to continue, "Well they'd bob and weave around you without too much difficulty."

"Gee thanks" was the somewhat sour reply, "And why are you so bloody chipper this morning?"

"Would you believe that I'm basking in the pleasure of your company?"

"Not really, I'd more readily believe that you've planted a bomb under Mueller's car in order to avoid handing in your latest composition assignment."

"That's next week. This week I'm plotting the overthrow of a third-world country."

"I think you should concentrate on Mueller, there's enough chaos in third world without you adding to it."

"True, but if I'm in the third world then I'm far enough away from Mueller to get an extension on my assignment."

"I wouldn't bet on that."

The young man smiled ruefully, "Neither would I, but it's worth a crack."

An uneasy silence descended on the pair, both knew why they were there and both were too scared to make the first move, despite both having admitted their mutual attraction. In Greg, the uneasiness displayed itself as loudness, as bravado and like a ten year old that shows their interest in someone by running up and punching them he launched verbal sortie after verbal sortie each designed to demonstrate to the women opposite him that he was there and that he'd brought all his plumage with him. For Rilie's part, she became truculence personified, if one had only a passing acquaintanceship with Rilie, one would assumed that she wasn't not a morning person and that she was caffeine deficient, but for those who know her they would have spotted the nervousness, the lack of expansive gesticulation, the furrowed brow, the lack of abuse, all were signs that Rilie wanted to run.

For two such talented, intelligent people, they were pretty use in the grand scheme of relationships clearly this was a Dear Abby moment, and Abby was nowhere to be seen. 

After mentally tossing a coin and losing, best of twenty-five, Rilie decided to make the first move.

"Greg, shut up," she snarled. She then reached across the table, grabbed him by the collar and kissed him. So much for subtlety. 

The Kiss was interrupted by a crash from behind the counter, as he, who was currently Tim, fell off his seat in shock – it could have been amusement but the banana flan that covered his face made precise identification somewhat difficult. Greg, for his part, was doing a fairly impressive impression of a goldfish, accepting, as you do, that goldfish are neither bright red or found with coffee dribbling out their nose; while true that Rilie's kiss was more than welcome, Greg wished she'd timed it a little better. Better in the sense that he'd swallowed first. 

Observing his dilemma, Rilie grinned somewhat sheepishly, although without hint of remorse; she'd been through her own personal hell lately and since depression is the gift that just kept giving it was either go all St George on it or share it around. The way things had ended up, she had, to all intents, kissed the dragon and ridden off with the damsel, although she had her doubts as to how Greg would look in a wimple. 

Greg, for his part, having recovered his dignity – which had crawled off into a corner to have a quiet seizure – was about to Errol Flynn his companion when his cell-phone launched into a castrated version of The William Tell Overture.

"'lo? Grissom, what's up?…..You got my note?…..At the university…..No, I can't skip class, my lecturer will turn me into a lamp shade…..What's that? You'll write me a note? Thanks so much…..

OK, OK, I'll see you at Ecklie's in half an hour…..You too, bye."

"What was that all about?" Rilie asked, if he skipped now she'd turn him into a lampshade.

"Grissom, I had an idea last night and he wants to follow it up."

"Soooooooo…...you're leaving?" Greg recognised 'that' tone and winced internally.

"Yep, spectacular timing huh? How about dinner tonight, my place, I'll introduce you to my cat."

"Along as it's not on the menu, that's fine. Alright Greg, I'll see you tonight, now go away, I need another coffee."

"'kay, see you later." 

As Greg left the minds of the two young people held two distinct thoughts, Greg was asking himself why he didn't kiss Rilie goodbye, while Rilie was wondering where the hell Greg lived.


	17. The Rocks in my Head

Well here we are again - I'm back, and more illiterate than ever.  
  
I should note that we're nearly there and that I've finally gotten  
around to explaining what makes our killer tick. About bloody time.  
  
Thank you to those of you who wished me well on the Wedding thing, I  
repaid your positive thoughts by drinking lots orf good red wine and  
eating some yummy food. I also, would you believe, found time to  
write.  
  
BTW: I am now safely married and more or less respectable.  
  
In answer to a review for the last chapter: Yes I know the earlier  
chapters are a tad dodgy writing wise - I am planning a full rewrite  
when this monster is completed. Anyway, somewhere around Ch6 I started  
getting enthusiastic, so in the long term I will bring the earlier  
chapters up to scratch.  
  
As always, this chapter is a 'Spot the Pop Culture' reference chapter.  
  
For the person who asked, a "Dear Abby" moment refers to the US advise  
columnist Abigail van Buren, and her column titled "Dear Abby".  
  
Finally, thanks to 'tasha my beta, who did her usual sterling effort,  
despite possessing the audacity to have a life and a job.  
  
Thanks to all who've reviewed: keep'em coming.  
  
As always, I hope you, the reader, derive some small enjoyment from my  
efforts.  
  
Don't go around saying the world owes you a living. The world owes you  
nothing. It was here first.  
Mark Twain  
  
America had often been discovered before Columbus, but it had always  
been hushed up.  
Oscar Wilde  
  
Diplomacy is the art of saying 'Nice doggie' until you can find a  
rock.  
Will Rogers  
  
Disbelief in magic can force a poor soul into believing in government  
and business.  
Tom Robbins (1936 - )  
  
"Andrews, where's Sanders?" Rilie's reverie was shattered by the actinic tones of the composition professor. Actually, reverie wasn't precisely accurate - about an hour had passed since Greg had headed of to meet up with Grissom and after spending an extended two minutes basking in the afterglow of not being rejected (actually, if Greg had rejected her she wouldn't have been around to verbally assault, she would have been housed at the local police station on charges relating to either assault or attempted murder dependent wholly on Greg's reaction time) - she was considering her options for this evening. While a strategically manufactured seduction wasn't on the cards she was at the least going to have fun; fun that wasn't of the monopoly variety. Of course the intended fun assumed that she could actually locate chez Sanders she couldn't believe she hadn't asked Greg where he lived; it was all Grissom's fault.  
  
"Ms Andrews, I'm waiting," even by Mueller's standards the tone was irascible. Rilie knew from Greg that he wasn't Mueller's favourite person - actually it was generally believed that Mueller didn't like anyone, herself included - but the active loathing in her voice surprised her.  
  
"I believe he was called into work professor."  
  
"And why would Mr Sanders have the audacity to choose to attend work over gracing my classroom with his presence."  
  
"That would probably be because they pay him and you don't professor."  
  
"He would choose money over art? He truly is a contemptible creature."  
  
"And precisely what would you know about art professor? I've done your class remember? You stomp on anyone who shows the slightest talent or originality; from what others have told me, Greg shows both. I would have thought you would have been delighted not to have him around."  
  
Mueller scowled, her expression darkening. "I have no issue with Mr Sanders' alleged talent, I have issue with his discipline. He is a dilettante; he mocks me with his every movement and his every word. He needs to understand that while he is in my class he is the student and I am the professor."  
  
Biting back a Star Wars moment, Rile regarded the older woman with acid in her gaze. "So what you're saying professor is that you are always right simply because you are the professor?"  
  
"That's not the point," countered Mueller. "The point is that my job is to teach, not chase students around."  
  
"If that's the case, why are you chasing Greg? It's not compulsory for him to attend class, and you're not his mother" - at least I hope not, she thought. "So at best you're contradicting yourself and the other option is that you're a stalker."  
  
"You're a fine one to talk about stalking, Ms Andrews; I'm given to understand that illegal use of the student records database is a serious offence. Now, if you see Mr Sanders, tell him I want a word. Good day Ms Andrews."  
  
Rilie said nothing, aghast that someone - a Mueller-shaped someone - knew something about her extra curricular computing activities. She wasn't worried about Mueller exposing her as the composition professor was far too vindictive to launch a frontal assault. It was then that realisation dawned and Rilie knew how to acquire a certain address.  
  
*******  
  
Greg was torn. Certainly he wanted to assist Grissom with the investigation and he was, in fact, quite flattered to be asked to help but in truth he was somewhat nervous about missing composition class. It wasn't that he was afraid of Professor Mueller; it was just that her mood was more changeable than the English weather and as such he wasn't really sure if he wanted to attract any more lightning than he usually did, which lately, in composition seemed to be the sum-total for the entire class. The professor appeared to take an unholy delight in torturing the young man, so much so in fact, that Greg was beginning to think that he had a target stencilled on his forehead.  
  
The irony, of course, was that he- despite what he told Rilie and others - enjoyed composition. Certainly, Mueller was a small-minded, petty despot whom he suspected of dissecting small animals during the holidays (without, it must be added, benefit of anaesthetic) but she was also a first-rate teacher whose criticism, when circumspectly excised from the accompanying sarcasm and abuse, was succinct, accurate and useful; initially it had been quite difficult for Greg to accept this concept and it had required several glasses of wine to restore his equilibrium.  
  
It was now twenty minutes after the time Grissom had indicated they would meet and once again Greg's thoughts turned to the past and the offhand manner in which he had been treated by the CSI Shift Head - perhaps, he though, re-familiarity breeds re-contempt. His chain of thought was interrupted by the arrival of a somewhat sweaty Grissom, who had blindsided him while he was thinking.  
  
"Sorry Greg, I had a flat tire," and Greg cursed himself for his lack of faith.  
  
"So what's the deal boss?"  
  
Grissom allowed himself a slight smile at Greg's manner of address. "I called ahead, so Mrs Ecklie is expecting us; this is an investigation, not a raid."  
  
"Any word on Ecklie?"  
  
"His wife said that his condition has stabilised but that he's still in a coma. He's no longer on life-support though so it's simply a case of waiting for him to wake up."  
  
"If he does wake up."  
  
"Indeed, but being positive never hurt anyone."  
  
"I thought you all about empirical evidence and not the power of positive thought." Greg inquired of his superior.  
  
"It's all relative Greg. Whether or not I like Conrad, or indeed even if his consciousness wasn't vital to our progressing the case, I am not so inclined as to wish for the worst solely to appease the gods of chance." Grissom sighed "It also sounds like Conrad and I need to talk, if for no other reason that to clear the air." Abruptly Grissom physically shook himself from his reverie, much like a dog exiting a body of water; once again he was back-at-work. 'Right, to the business at hand. Your note indicated that it appears that no-one had checked to see if Ecklie was working on something the night of the accident; when he rushed out. I checked with his wife and no-one has visited, it would seem that everyone took her at her word when she said that he hadn't been working on anything."  
  
"Has she touched anything?"  
  
"Not that she is aware of, that is, she hasn't tidied the study since the accident and she assures me that everything is - at least as far as she is aware - the same as it was the night of the accident."  
  
"What about that evening?"  
  
"She says that for most of the evening, Conrad was watching television. About nine-thirty he gave up on the box and went into his study and about half an hour after that he came rushing out, told her he'd be back later, and then left; the rest you know. Apparently he wasn't reading anything while watching television and there's no, specific journal article that was left on his desk; even his mail was left unopened, so we can probably discount any form of personal correspondence. Mrs Ecklie did mention that she threw away some flyers from the local junk-food outlets but in the grand scheme of things I don't think our killer is in the pawn of a franchise war."  
  
"You never know" smirked Greg "They've been killing people for years maybe they've just taken a more proactive stance."  
  
The older man said nothing the slight twinkle in his eyes betraying his amusement. Walking up the front path he paused at the door and was about to knock when it swung open unexpectedly; Mrs Ecklie stood askance.  
  
"I was starting to think you were going to spend all day talking; you did, I understand, have things to do other than stand outside my gate. You can, of course, stay there if you wish, if nothing else it keeps the Amway salesmen away."  
  
"Actually..." began Greg "We have a business proposition for...ouch.."  
  
"Don't mind him, Mrs Ecklie" interrupted Grissom, who had abruptly halted the younger man's monologue with an elbow to the floating ribs, "He's young and he thinks he's funny." The woman silently rolled her eyes in pained response, "May we come in?"  
  
"I suppose you'd better Mr Grissom, unless there's some way you can view the contents of Conrad's study from here." With that, somewhat arch comment, the wife of Conrad Ecklie, stepped aside and ushered the two men into her house and thus it was only Grissom who heard Greg's sotto voce comment 'guess who else thinks they're funny'. It was the curse of age and experience that allowed Grissom to maintain his equanimity and peace-of- mind and not send his younger colleague back outside to play in traffic.  
  
The Ecklie home came as a surprise to Greg; for what reason he wasn't entirely sure as he hadn't held any expectations beforehand. Actually, that wasn't precisely true, but the previous ideas he'd held about Ecklie were being rapidly moderated by the internal grape-vine at the lab post- accident. Greg's sub-conscious also thought it worthy of consideration that the sources for his previous suspicions of Ecklie were the same sources that had caused him to re-evaluate his place in the lab - and his life in general - and eventually leave the lab; it appeared that the visits to the home of Conrad Ecklie presaged another one of those annoying re- evaluations.  
  
Architecturally, the house didn't stand out being nothing more than a standard, if well constructed, example of the wave of modernism that had washed over Vegas in the sixties in tandem with the resurgence in the casino industry. What struck Greg, were the myriad pictures that covered the walls, some were photographs - the majority showing Conrad Ecklie as either coach or administrator his pride in the people around him evident - more surprising, however, were the delicate watercolours that were interspersed amongst the photographs. Grissom, too, had noticed and he was similarly taken aback; quieter now, the voice of Ecklie's wife only provided a backdrop to the growing sense of intrusion felt by the two men. Preconception and illusion are difficult things to have shattered especially when the stark gulag envisioned is supplanted by a serenity that it felt almost profane to disturb.  
  
"Conrad has a very delicate touch, he minored in the fine arts when studying law. He no longer takes it seriously as he felt he could do more good in other areas. Now, if you come this way gentlemen, I'll show you the study."  
  
The study was also a contrast, not so much in comparison to the house but with specific reference to Ecklie's office at the lab; where the lab bespoke order and austerity the study was the personification of turmoil; one could have easily come to the conclusion that a stray tornado had taken up residence here and that it had a somewhat lax attitude to housekeeping such was the level of mess. Papers and journals were haphazardly organised into precariously balanced piles with the only common factor beings their seeming ability to defy gravity. Only the desk, in the centre of the room, displayed a semblance of the order the CSIs had come to associate with Ecklie and that was only because parts of the desk could actually be seen beneath the heaving morass of paper. Greg looked despairingly at Grissom, who didn't look to enthused himself, the coming hours were not going to be fun.  
  
"I'm always after Conrad to tidy up in here but he tells me to go clean my own study" Mrs Ecklie smiled fondly, "He calls this his oasis, and frankly, who am I to soil another person's water supply? Please gentlemen, feel free to examine what you feel you must but do keep in mind that some of the documents are quite valuable and some of the correspondence is of a private nature I trust you will be discreet."  
  
Both men indicated their assent and Mrs Ecklie left informing the two that she could be found at the other end of the house if they required her assistance and that she would bring them a coffee in about two hours, which, for Greg at least, was cause for celebration.  
  
"Where do you want to start Grissom?"  
  
The older man surveyed the room briefly, his almost insatiable thirst for knowledge sorely tempted by the large collection of books assembled by his colleague and erstwhile nemesis. Returning his attention to the immediate situation, Grissom vocalised his thoughts. "The desk I think, you remember his wife said that's where he was working before he left."  
  
Greg disagreed "No, you told me that she had said only that he'd been in the study, not that he was at the desk," Greg grinned "That sounded suspiciously like an assumption Grissom, better watch that." The only indication Greg would ever receive that he had made a point, however sardonic, was a slightly raised eybrow.  
  
"True, but you must admit it is the most likely place for someone to be working in a study."  
  
"But we don't know he was working, he could simply have been looking for a book, god knows there's enough of them here."  
  
"But if the discovery was that important would you take the time to put the book back," Grissom gestured to the various books scattered about the floor, the desk and pretty much every available horizontal surface, "And that of course assumes that we're actually looking for a book."  
  
Greg grinned, "True, and if this was back at the lab I would have said yes, but after seeing this place I'm not so sure. Anyway, let's for arguments sake, agree he was working at his desk and start from there."  
  
Twenty minutes later nothing that could be said to be indicative of what either man thought could constitute an epiphany, serendipity - or even a clue - had eventuated, of course it didn't help that they didn't actually know what they were looking for and in Grissom's case the idea of trying to think like Ecklie was somewhat unnerving: of course the state of being 'un- nerved' could be seen as an improvement on the wave of nausea such an action in the past would have caused.  
  
"Well Grissom, it doesn't look like there's anything on the desk that's any use, unless you want to consider the latest supplement from the Master Builders Association, but then I'm not too sure we'd be able to identify our friend from his taste in nails." Grissom silently agreed, hovering as he was on naming the killer Bob in honour of the supplement; Greg's continuing monologue returned him to the present.  
  
"...he probably gets the supplement as a reference work, I imagine there's a special section in the back for psychos and their hardware needs."  
  
"Thank you for that Greg, it's extremely reassuring."  
  
"No problem Grissom, that's why you pay me huge amounts of money...for my valuable insights."  
  
"Obviously we're paying you too much."  
  
Another forty minutes passed and the desk had failed to produce anything useful other than a free pass to the local amusement arcade - a free roller coaster ride included - and the chance to win one million dollars (send no money now); the disappointment was palpable. It was Grissom, head down in disgust, who noticed the journal poking out from under the desk where it had obviously fallen.  
  
"Can you get that Greg," he asked, gesturing in the general direction of the floor "Your knees are younger than mine."  
  
"And better looking I'd imagine" added the younger man as he bent down and grabbed the offending article by its corner. "The Journal of the American Psychiatric Association...think it's relevant?"  
  
"Don't know what's inside yet, have a look at the contents would you?"  
  
Greg turned his attention to the journal and slowly began to read out the titles of various articles as he scanned the contents, "...ummmm...Choosing the Perfect Couch for your Practice...Perfecting your German Accent...Ten Steps to Better Referrals..." he paused, "Sounds like the APA is sponsored by the Better Business Association, Grissom."  
  
Grissom did his best to look stern, although he did, when he admitted to the nasty unprofessional biases that littered his psyche, have some doubts as to the true focus of some psychiatric practitioners. "Now is not the time to throw rocks Greg, what about that article on the Pax Romana Scandal that's on the cover?"  
  
Greg flipped to the offending page and began to skim read aloud. "The Pax Romana or Roman Peace as it's commonly known is an anti-psychotic drug produced by the Italian firm SPQR...it's apparently a lithium-based derivative" he added. The chemist in him quickly scanned the pharmaceutical properties in the sidebar before he returned to his recitation. "...it seems that the company had a bad habit , in years where profit forecasts looked weak they reduced expenditure by substituting a placebo for the active ingredient in Pax Romana.."  
  
"So what you're telling me," interrupted Grissom, "Is that we have an anti- psychotic that isn't. Does the article list the years the placebo was substituted?"  
  
"Hang on...Yep, and wouldn't you know it ladies and gentlemen, we have a correlation; and speaking of correlations, the whole mess was discovered only when some bean-counter in the Italian Bureau of Statistics noticed a very non-statistical blip in domestic violence rates in certain years and, as the French say, 'et voila' . Anyway, our bean-counter backtracked, did some checking and now SPQR is in a whole lot of trouble."  
  
"OK, does the article say anything about Pax Romana distribution to other countries?"  
  
"Nope."  
  
"Not even a note about American distribution seeing as this is the journal of the American Psychiatric Association." For some reason Grissom sounded a little terse.  
  
"Nope, there is an addendum which gives a contact address for a SPQR subsidiary in South Carolina though."  
  
"And you don't consider South Carolina another country?"  
  
"More like a separate species actually."  
  
Grissom surrendered. "OK, I guess we'll start with the subsidary then.." he stopped on seeing the doubtful expression on Greg's face. "OK Greg, what is it?"  
  
"It all sounds very plausible Grissom, but haven't we investigated the whole flipped-out psycho angle to here and back?"  
  
"Not really...well at least not from this angle. We've only looked for people on the loose, people not reporting in or people not collecting their prescriptions, someone taking their medication wouldn't have triggered an alert."  
  
"OK, but maybe we're assuming too much."  
  
Grissom restrained his impatience, "You're kidding, right? This is the best lead we've had in ages and it's plausible...and you accuse me of being negative."  
  
"Don't get me wrong Grissom, it's a lead, a good lead, but we're assuming that, firstly, SPQR is still operating in the US and then, if they are, that they'll release their distribution records for Pax Romana to us."  
  
"If they won't I'm sure a federal warrant will encourage them."  
  
"And if they're solely Italian-based now."  
  
"We'll cross that bridge when we come to it." Grissom regarded his colleague curiously "You have heard of international co-operation haven't you?"  
  
"OK. Assuming you get the records of distribution you're going to have to get a patient list from doctors, which even when considering the case in question will have every med-ethics and civil liberties group from here to the moon screaming blue bloody murder."  
  
"I don't believe the right to serial murder is protected under the constitution, Greg."  
  
"Also" continued Greg, "Assuming you get the patient list, you're going to have to find the right person, which when you consider that we don't have a shred of evidence as to this person's identity you're looking for the proverbial needle in the haystack."  
  
Grissom was taken aback and he wondered at precisely what point Greg had started to channel Brass. For his part, Greg knew he was overstating things, but he'd experienced enough disappointments with this case not to get too excited over a single, lean, although admittedly explosive, lead.  
  
*******  
  
The voices were now legion, the omnipresent crush of their constant voice in his head enough to drown out what little was left of the voice that originally was...almost; every now and then, expressed as part conscience, part despair, a thin reed cried out against the inevitable, onrushing tide.  
  
The voice that now responded to the commands of its master (masters?) was now that of an automaton, no timbre, no life, response and compliance were monotone, acquiescence robotic, resistance was, to coin a phrase, not only futile, but irrelevant.  
  
"He will serve without question, we must move forward, time grows short."  
  
"Time is irrelevant, there is always another tool we use this one until it is no more then we move on. This is as it always was, do not seek to disrupt the natural order with senseless concerns, we are, we do, there is nothing else."  
  
"There may not be anything else but the here and now is just that, do not be swayed by the overconfidence of the inevitable. What will be still can not be if we don't not follow our path. We are what we are."  
  
"Our brothers speak plainly, let us move forward as one, for as one we are."  
  
"The sequence must be completed."  
  
"Completion? She is the completion. This is already decided. She has opposed us and thus is subject to us."  
  
"I disagree. The paranoia and anger she sows is kin to us. Why do we seek to remove our own, her outrage hides us, her clouded judgement inflames, better that we seek out the mind of those who hunt us."  
  
"And who is the mind, sister, who shall we fear most?"  
  
"We/I fear no-one/no-thing. Our mind is called Grissom, he hunts us through science, let the whore of the word be she poses no threat."  
  
"Sister, you challenge a made decision. Brethren, a voice is raised in challenge, is silence to be gifted to the mind or to the voice? Answer me brethren, our time drawers near."  
  
******  
  
Greg was torn between amusement and horror when he checked his mobile for messages later that day. That Rilie had called was only mildly surprising and he expected that she'd again been visiting the Student Records database; that Rilie had called to inform him that Mueller wanted to see him gave Greg cause for concern and he wondered if the eternally changeable moods of the composition professor presaged his imminent crucifixion.  
  
Admittedly - a little honesty never hurt outside a ten mile radius of your nemesis - the poor relations that existed between himself and Mueller were due as much to Greg's intransigence as it was to Mueller's complete lack of patience and tact; if one was of an allegorical bent one could happily conclude that the relationship between Messrs Sanders and Mueller was taken directly from Milton, with both figures struggling heroically to demonstrate that it was they who was the more tragic embodiment of Lucifer.  
  
Greg found his relationship with the professor difficult, certainly, he was prepared to admit - albeit somewhat grudgingly (and away from all recording devices) that the professor was a better than adequate composition instructor and that - heaven forefend - he had even learnt things in her class, however, he was also of the opinion that she had the soul of a brick and as such wasn't able to appreciate the result of what she so thoroughly drilled into her students.  
  
As he drove towards the university, the young man considered his options. Certainly, he was prepared to challenge the professor on certain points, but he was not so naive as to think that he could get away with everything; he had, with much effort, began to understand that diplomacy wasn't something that was used by government employees to explain the exact reasons they had for causing the latest international crisis and that there was indeed something to be said in favour of thinking before opening one's mouth. Greg had also learnt that there was a large degree of difference between being diplomatic and maintaining a resentful and wholly immature silence. It was thus, for the sake of diplomacy that he was on his way to see the professor and he was exceptionally grateful to Rilie fore the advance warning. Diplomacy starts at home, he thought to himself, and thus it makes more sense to actually see what's going on before launching a pre- emptive and possibly redundant attack.  
  
Pulling into the main campus area, Greg was surprised at how deserted it was this early in the afternoon; normally the main square teemed with students as they went about their daily rituals the various classes disgorging their populations into overlapping and seemingly eternal lunch hours. He shrugged and decided that unless Mueller had gone mad and had shot or poisoned the majority of the student population then it wasn't really his concern. It wasn't until he was halfway across campus that he came across the first poster: 'Save Our Coffee' it proclaimed, and it duly announced the time and place of the first rally to protest at the University's plans to replace the independent cafeterias on campus with a series of Starbucks. Greg was horrified and would have, if not certain of the importance of finding the composition professor, attended. The arrival of Starbucks was akin to one of the biblical plagues popping in for a visit, and as such required the presentation of a staunch and united opposition otherwise who knew what horror could be next: KFC, Burger King, or the evil Scottish Restaurant and the Clown of Doom that led its armies.  
  
The rally, did of course, explain where all the students were; if there was one thing all students agreed on it was coffee. Left and Right wing, economics and arts, all would band together to repel the threat of this fecund monolith.  
  
The music block, like the rest of the campus, was equally devoid of a meaningful student presence and the departmental secretary acknowledged Greg's arrival with a wry smile, she was, however, able to suspend her amusement long enough to advise Greg, in answer to his query, that Professor Mueller was indeed in her office and that, if the student wanted, she'd be happy to call ahead and advise the professor of his presence. Greg hastily assured the secretary that that wasn't necessary - he did after all want to maintain some small measure of tactical advantage.  
  
The door to the professor's office was devoid of decoration save for a sole panel from a Far Side cartoon, which depicted a vulture preparing to drop a piano on some poor unfortunate lost in the desert, it was, to Greg's mind, as he prepared to knock, a highly appropriate image.  
  
"Come in Mr Sanders."  
  
Fantastic thought Greg, Mueller's clairvoyant and he hastily decided that throwing himself upon her hitherto non-identified mercy might be an idea.  
  
"Are you intending on entering before I apply for my pension Mr Sanders, or should I take your hesitation as an indication that you actually have no reason to see me and that you have in fact merely come to stand in sycophantic awe before the majestic presence of my door." The voice assumed a note of command "Come or go Mr Sanders, God only knows I have so much time to waste trying to teach you let alone wait upon your glacial decision- making skills...come come...civilisations are crumbling as we, excuse me, I, speak." Greg decided to enter, if only to stop the acid-tongued professor from taking any further advantage of his hesitation.  
  
As much as Ecklie's home had been a surprise, the professor's office was a exponential leap in shock value - perhaps Greg had been expecting voodoo dolls and the severed heads of composition students who had failed, he surely wasn't expecting posters from Fantasia, who would have thought Mueller was a fan of dancing alligators?  
  
"It's not what you're thinking, Sanders" came the acid comment from the professor as she noticed Greg's bemused expression. "These are originals, that's why they're framed. My father worked on Fantasia and these" she indicated some of the posters "are his work. Tell me, were you expecting a collection of soft toys as well?"  
  
The image that flashed before Greg's eyes was one of Professor Mueller wading through hordes of teddy bears with a machete, which while disturbing in and of itself, was infinitely less disturbing than imagining her with a Barbie. "Errrr not quite, Professor." He gathered himself, not quite able to rid his mind of Mueller performing unholy acts upon an innocent My Little Pony, "I was told that you were looking for me this morning."  
  
"Andrews?" was the arch response.  
  
"Andrews? Oh, you mean Rilie. Yes, it was she. Look Professor, if it's about missing class this morning I can explain..."  
  
"Don't bother, Mr Sanders," was the bored response "Much as I would like to see you mounted on a blunt spike for missing my class that is not why I wished to see you, rather, it is with reference to your composition assignment."  
  
"D.O.A?"  
  
Mueller visibly winced. "Yes, that's correct. Every year, Mr Sanders, those compositions submitted by the first years as their major project are submitted into the state-wide competition for musical composition, to that end I am bound to inform you that your composition - and I use that term advisedly - has been selected for the finals. You will be advised closer to the date in question as to what is required of you."  
  
You don't seem particularly happy about this Professor," stated Greg, noting that the older woman looked like she was suffering from intense, and extremely painful, indigestion.  
  
"I'm consoling myself by imagining that the judges were drunk at the time. Good day Mr Sanders, your attendance is no longer required," and thus Greg beat a hasty retreat pausing only to roll his eyes at the departmental secretary on his way out, she merely grinned, and mentally counted her winnings from the hastily arranged staff pool; only she had bet on his emerging from Mueller's office with all his limbs still attached.  
  
*****************  
  
Fury etched her features, her very posture the epitome of incandescent rage. Who the hell did the chief of police think he was? How dare he, tell her, Agatha Babylon, that she was inciting panic and that she must cease and desist in her rabble-rousing.  
  
And damn her editor for siding with the police - what did he know about journalism?  
  
Journalism, now there was the rub. She remembered when she was young, when she was idealistic and believed that there was good in people and that the word could be used for the greater good. She never believed that she could change the world, the crusading could be left to other, but at least she could give a damn.  
  
With time came bitterness, a failed marriage and the inner despair of knowing that giving a damn wasn't enough anymore.  
  
So she stopped.  
  
Her idealism died on the cold, infertile plain that had become her passion. Her writing became what she once hated and so, eventually, she came to hate herself and her self-contempt became a contempt and suspicion for all; her arrogance a testament to the fact that she had given up, on herself: on everything.  
  
And no-one noticed.  
  
In the silence of her soul she screamed, while publicly she basked in the adulation she had never wanted.  
  
Not that she would admit this publicly.  
  
Not that she could.  
  
That scientist, Grissom, it was his fault, he didn't take her seriously. It was he, he whose callous disregard for her ego that caused this doubt, this uncertainty; for nothing undercuts an inflated sense of self-worth like being mocked by someone who relied on facts to present the world as it really was. By undercutting her story, he undercut her and then the doubts had come.  
  
"Bzzzzzzzt"  
  
It was perhaps fortuitous, she thought, that the dark shadow that cast itself over her psyche was interrupted by the doorbell, for this path of self-recrimination was going nowhere. 


	18. Red Herrings:The Official Communist Fish

Well, here we are again, this bloody thing doesn't want to finish itself for some reason. I have to admit that I'm torn between the enjoyment of crawling around these people's psyches and then wishing that they would damn well go away so I can work on something else.

Special Notes for this chapter: [1] There isn't a continuity problem, I'm playing games. The consequences of the flashback will appear in the next chapter. It surely does reek of Deus ex Machina, but you get that, and I take pride in the fact that it's gonna drive 'tasha nuts.

[2] You can use malt whiskey for Irish coffee; deal with it J

Thanks as always to the wonderful 'tasha, my beta extraordinaire, whom I am slowly driving mad and a welcome back to Kate, who felt I didn't love her any more but who was still kind enough to point out all the words I spelt wrong.

As always, I hope, you, the reader, enjoy this offering; you may, in the interests of boosting my meagre ego shower me with reviews.

The best thing to give to your enemy is forgiveness; to an opponent, tolerance; to a friend, your heart; to your child, a good example; to a father, deference; to your mother, conduct that will make her proud of you; to yourself, respect; to all men, charity. 

**Francis Maitland Balfour**

Trying to be a first-rate reporter on the average American newspaper is like trying to play Bach's 'St. Matthew's Passion' on a ukulele. 

**Bagdikian's Observation**

When they discover the centre of the universe, a lot of people will be disappointed to discover they are not it. 

**Bernard Bailey**

Dinner had been nice. Not nice in that horrifically faux-polite way, which denoted not only disdain but also the implication that the host was a tasteless clod whose parents should really have married outside the family, but nice in the sense of a pleasant company and good conversation.

…..and Greg could cook…..Although that wasn't a major surprise considering how anal he was about his coffee. Actually, his coffee machine was of minor concern looking, as it did, like a cross between an iron maiden and the bridge of the Enterprise. When Greg disappeared behind the monstrosity for a good ten minutes after the dessert dishes were cleared Rilie began to think that she'd been thrown over for the caffeine equivalent of the Bride of Frankenstein.

"Sanders, are you mating with that thing, or do I have to talk to your cat?"

The cat was another concern. It had looked at her disdainfully when she arrived and its opinion of what its pet had invited home had only gone downhill as the evening progressed. It had perched on a ragged-looking sofa during dinner and had regarded her through slitted eyes for the entire meal, to the extent where she was fighting the urge to check if she'd suddenly sprouted a tail and whiskers. Greg hadn't helped. He'd regarded the interaction between the two with the veiled amusement and avuncular tolerance that all pet owners gift their animals.

"Benzene isn't particularly social."

"In the manner of a great white shark."

"I just think she's a little possessive is all."

"I think you need to examine your definition of 'little' Greg, I'll feel like I'm being sized up as a potential scratching post."

Greg disagreed, "Benzene wouldn't scratch you Rilie, you're not expensive enough, Benzene only scratches the finest of everything," he gestured in the direction of the sofa - well it looked like a sofa if you being generous to matted lumps of stuffing held together with the odd bit of fabric, actually calling it a sofa was an insult of all home furnishings in general and lounge suites in particular – "Once upon a time" Greg continued, "That was an heirloom piece, then one day I went out and came back a couple of hours later to find this," he laugh ruefully, "That was the first and last time I ever forgot to feed her."

"If I had a cat that did that it would be dog food.'

"Maybe so, but Benzene amuses me more than the sofa ever did and I must admit to taking a small amount of pleasure in knowing that the destruction of the sofa will have my great aunt Martha rolling in her grave."

"Her sofa?"

"No, but she'd wanted it and had been put out in the extreme when her sister, my Gran, refused to give it to her because Gran thought that Martha wouldn't take proper care of it. I never liked Martha, she was a bad-tempered old bat who smelt like a pickled onion; and she didn't like cats. Half the family thought it was some sort of divine justice when she was run down by an SPCA van when she was out visiting the furrier to purchase a new fox-skin wrap."  

"How was the driver?"

"Of the van?"

"Yes"

"Traumatised, or he was until we described Martha to him; after that he made a remarkable recovery. Nice guy, married Martha's granddaughter; they met at the funeral."

Greg finally finished his caffeinated machinations and came out of the kitchen bearing something tall and creamy looking.

"That doesn't look like a coffee Greg."

 "Irish coffee. God's blessing. Single malt scotch, the finest Columbian coffee and perfectly whipped cream, it doesn't get any better than this; even Benzene likes it."

"Your cat like Irish coffee?"

"Yes, I'm very proud of her."

"And precisely how do you control that thing when it's on a caffeine high?"

"Usually I hide in the other room."

"Very brave."

"One tries." Well at least the ironic banter was going well, however, Greg was somewhat confused as to his next step. Should he heroically leap over the couch and ravish Rilie – who was certainly looking extremely ravishable - …..probably not, she'd probably plait his arms and legs together. Well, then again, maybe not, after all it was she that had hurdled the table in the café this morning and assaulted him - not that he was complaining mind – so maybe some level of reciprocation was in order.

"Rilie, would you be horribly offended at the notion of my coming over to where you're sitting and performing moderate, but extremely interesting indignities upon your person?" Oh yes, that was smooth, makes me sounds like a thirty year old virgin with a dictionary fetish.

"What are you suggesting Sanders? And is it something of which your cat would approve? "

OK, thought Greg, she has to be teasing me.

Christ, thought Rilie, glaciers move faster than this.

Useless pets, thought Benzene.

Waldorf Astoria was in a manic mood, a peripatetic frenzy no less and one that couldn't be blamed on his morning coffee – a half-caf, mocha latte with both chocolate and cinnamon sprinkles. In his hand he held a report, a report that if true would alienate a good percentage of the voters no matter which way he slithered. He paced, his pacing matched by the tourettian agitation of the report in his hand, which waved to and fro with such force that the fan in the corner was rendered essentially redundant.

"Mary," he thundered, "Where the hell is Corbin?"

Waldorf's secretary, used as she was to mayoral tantrums having served five consecutive administrations, ignored the lack of anything remotely resembling civility and indicated in a tone as bland as the City Councils latest budget that the Police Chief was indeed on his way.

"I said I wanted him here immediately."

After briefly pausing and swallowing a comment about Star Trek, transporters and where the mayor could install one, Mary hurried off to locate the errant Chief, she returned within minutes and informed the Mayor that the Chief was held up in traffic. The Mayor was not impressed.

"Why doesn't he use his siren?"

"Because you made it illegal."

"I what?" 

"Part of those budget cuts that we're not supposed to mention."

The mayor gifted his P.A. with a murderous glare and it was through clenched teeth he managed to ask he for the rest of the days appointments.

Mary, having organised his calendar for the day, grinned maliciously. "Well sir, at 11AM you're meeting with representatives from the Las Vegas Medical Ethics Association. At Midday, the presidents' of the League for Penal Reform and Anti-Death Penalty Advocacy Association will be here, followed by Rich Businessmen for a Socialist Utopia at 1PM. You get a half-hour break for lunch and then the Spanish Citizens association will be here to talk to you about a Piñata…… Also….." and there was no hiding Mary's suppressed glee,  "Your wife called, you're not to forget that you're having dinner with the Hendersons this evening and that they're going to show pictures of their trip to Greenland last Winter."

The Mayor, who had turned an interesting shade of green during his secretary's recitation, visibly quailed at the last item on his itinerary. "Is there any way you can get me out of it Mary? Perhaps an official visit to a landfill? Anything?"

"Not a chance sir. Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go and terrorise the typing pool." As her back was to Astoria as she left his office, he wouldn't have seen the broad grin on her face, she enjoyed reminding the Mayor from time-to-time just who was really in charge.    

She had just seated herself behind her desk when Corbin wandered in his distinct lack of haste clearly indicating that he shared Mary's pleasure in driving the Mayor mental.

"Waiting for me is he Mary?"

"Oh yes, he's fairly close to implosion this time."

"Well I'll see what I can do to encourage that, the mayoral chamber needs re-decorating; anyway, what's the _crisis du jour_?"

"Some CSI report he's received through unofficial channels; it would seem that he's got a mole in the office. Whatever it is, it's got him impersonating a hamster on speed that's missing its exercise wheel; it's not a good day for our beloved leader considering the agenda I've organised for today."

"You playing games again Mary?"

The P.A. grinned, "Let's just say that the Mayor's day is a right-wing capitalist's nightmare. So Corbin, what's this report all about?"

The police chief shrugged. Taking a moment to withdraw his cell phone from an inner pocket he dialled a number and waited.

"'lo Jim, Corbin. You know anything about a report?…..Really….I see, so it's just preliminary speculation…..How do I know about it? The Prince of Darkness has a spy, I'm about to go peel him off the ceiling…..Grissom wants to do what? Hasn't he heard of due process…..No, I wouldn't recommend that as a course of action, perhaps you could remind him that lynch mobs aren't legal in the state of Nevada…..He doesn't care? Christ Jim, he doesn't even know where to point the bloody thing, anyway, I thought he was supposed to be Mr Rational…..Yes, I know, he's tired of prying people off walls, we all are…..Look Jim, I better see if I can't talk some sense into the Great Leader, you go tie Grissom to a chair, or give him a rabies shot…..Yes, yes I know….thanks Jim."

Mary looked at the Corbin questioningly as he replaced the phone in his pocket but before she open her mouth he held up his hand to forestall her. "Not now Mary, I've got to go forestall our Mayor from doing something colossally stupid, could you do me a favour and disconnect his phone for a couple of hours, the last thing we need is him talking to someone even more ignorant that he is."

Mary shrugged, "OK Corbin, but can I listen in on the intercom? Someone's got to run this place and it's probably better that I have some idea of what's going on."         

Corbin shrugged, obviously leaving the choice to Mary's discretion, taking a deep breath he squared his shoulders and entered the Mayor's inner sanctum.

To say that Corbin was bemused as he surveyed the scene before him would leave one open to accusations of understatement. The mayor, the conservative, dignified mayor looked like the people from Queer Eye had rearranged him with a blender such was his state of deshabille. 

Restraining the urge to ask the Astoria if he had switched to Einstein's hairdresser, the chief cleared his throat and announced his presence with a polite inquiry. "I understand you've been looking for me Mr Mayor?"

"Where the hell have you been Calliope?"

"In traffic," was the bland reply. "So what's the problem?"

"Have you seen this," shrieked the mayor waving the document in his hand in front of Calliope's nose.

"No, it's in your hand. What is it?" he asked despite knowing precisely what it was from his brief conversation with Brass in the outer office, however, he wanted the Mayor's version, however histrionic that wound up being.

"It's the police, they're going to cause a major political scandal."

"…..and how are they going to do that?"

"They're going to catch the Shakespeare Killer."

"…..and catching one of the blood thirstiest criminals in US history is a bad thing?"

"Yes…..I mean no…..I mean, hell I don't know what I mean I just know I'm dead."

Hooray for the police, it's nice to know when you're wanted, thought Calliope. "So what you're telling me Waldorf, is that you're concerned that what's contained in that report is bad for you politically and that you are more concerned about your political career than you are about stopping a madman?"

Astoria had the grace to look abashed.

Calliope decided that this was the perfect opportunity to put the boot in. 

"So, can I ask Waldorf, how it is that you have a police report, on the Shakespeare Killer I might add, that I haven't seen yet? I believe that I am still the Chief of Police. Of course I could be mistaken."  

Astoria would have cleaned up at the academy awards at that point; such was the quality of his 'cornered rat' impression. Unfortunately, the rat had no hole and was thus left to babble incoherently in the direction of his Chief of Police. Calliope, experienced in the ways of politicians, was able provide an approximate translation of the Mayor's excuses, which could, in essence be distilled down to the somewhat unlikely: "I found it on my desk this morning."

"Oh really?" Calliope's scepticism was a palpable force and the mayor quailed before it. 'Would you like to try again Waldorf?"

Waldorf, for all his faults wasn't stupid, and his next tactic came straight from the Large Black Book of Political Tricks™. "I'm the Mayor, I'm not answerable to you Corbin."

Unfortunately for the mayor, Corbin was smarter, and when required of him, fought dirtier than the basest politician. "You're quite correct Waldorf, you're not answerable to me and I'll mention that when I announce my resignation to the press; I'm sure Ms Babylon would love an exclusive."

Game. Set. Match.  

Astoria's defeat was a palpable thing, as was his genuflection to the gods of political expediency "Alright Corbin, point made. Will you accept that I have a source inside the police and leave it there? Certainly, you can initiate a witch-hunt, and you'll probably find my source and then I'll just find another source you won't know about."

Corbin, while obviously not happy, was also on speaking terms with the same gods of expediency that Waldorf obviously had lunch with every Saturday at his Country Club and as such knew that what mattered now was playing the game; he'd had a win now it was time to move on.

For what it was worth, he didn't begrudge the Mayor his source; that was how the game was played, his annoyance came more from the Mayor's reaction for that wasn't how the game was played. Astoria, for his part knew he'd been outmanoeuvred through his own clumsiness, and pragmatist that he was, ceded the point to his Chief. This time. 

"Alright Corbin, now that you've had your fun can we get down to business, and Mary, if you're still listening in, get the hell off the intercom and do some work."

Calliope looked amused, "How'd you know."

"I'm corrupt Corbin, not stupid; although I'm well aware that my harpy of a P.A. thinks I'm an idiot. Hamurabbi I'm not, but neither am I completely bereft of the vague stirrings of higher brain function. I don't have enough money to buy my way into office, and I'm not an aging movie star, so do give me a little credit for something."

Corbin shrugged; he'd learnt never to underestimate any opponent especially one with all the cunning of a cornered rat like the Mayor. Certainly, Waldorf Astoria would never be the brain of Britain, but he wasn't in the running for village idiot either. "Whatever you say Mister Mayor, now if you could pass me that report you're trying not to have in your hands we'll get down to business."

Astoria assumed a pained expression; one Calliope knew better than to give total credence to thus he extended his hand for the report that his employer was, through the wonders of prestidigitation, attempting to disappear into the various documents that scattered his desk. 

With the resignation of a man forced to choose between beheading and being staked out over an anthill, Astoria handed over the report and then watched as his Chief of Police's expression did it's best imitation of a chameleon on a tartan rug. 

"I take then that you understand the reason for my swearing?"

"Perfectly. What it's telling me is that in order to catch this maniac we have to undermine the Hippocratic oath, the legal basis of doctor-patient privilege and, if we get time, cause a diplomatic incident with a foreign country."

"You missed out the bit about undermining the constitution."

"Oh yes. Wonderful. Why was it we wanted to catch this guy?"

"Beats me. Lunch?"

FLASHBACK: THE PREVIOUS EVENING 

The doorbell was still ringing. Agatha Babylon was not happy, safely ensconced as she was in her wallow of self-hatred and recrimination, the last thing she wanted to do was interact with her fellow beings. For all she cared it could be Lexington Steele with a bunch of flowers, tow tabs of ecstasy and a packet of Trojan extra-ribbed and she still would have slammed the door in his face – amongst other things.

'BBBBBZZZZZZZZZZZZZZTTTTTTT'

The buzzing was more insistent now, like a swarm of hornets left on the stove to boil too long and who were now using less than polite language to express their unhappiness with present accommodations.

Babylon gave in, and after cursing her doorman for being the incompetent offspring of a female canine she answered the door. Such was her aggravation that the usual concern one has for their personal safety, especially considering the contemporary Las Vegas environment, was cast aside as she ripped the security chain aside, flung back the deadbolt and pulled the door open with a muscularity one would not have initially attributed to one of her petite dimensions; to say she was surprised at who stood before her wasn't true, she was completely stunned, speechless and almost breathless. She would have been less surprised if the Shakespeare Killer himself had stood before her and asked her if wanted a personal relationship with God.

"I have to admit that I actually expected there to be sign-posting" came a quiet voice from in front of her, "Something like _'Cave Babylon' _perhaps."

"As opposed to something more appropriate like Beware of the Wild Hydrangeas?" Agatha Babylon, chief reporter, voice of the people, shrugged and stepped aside, gesturing for the person at her door to enter. "Won't you come in Mr Grissom?"

Nodding in polite acquiescence, the scientist entered the room and paused to admire the impressive tropical aquarium before taking a seat in one of the leather recliners his host gestured too.

"Would you care for something to drink?"

If Grissom was surprised at the courtesy – especially considering the last Armageddon-like encounter between the two -  he kept it hidden and asked for a mineral water if such was available. While Babylon went to get his drink he took time to examine the room. That it was testament to wealth and luxury was not a surprise; Babylon did earn a fortune for her skill as a professional muckraker, what surprised Grissom was the clearly evident taste of the owner, he'd expected the gaudy trappings of Toulouse Lautrec on acid; mentally he chastised himself for sloppy thinking and reminded his addled prejudices that Ecklie's house should have been enough of a reminder not to let his preconceptions run amok. 

Presently, the small dark haired woman returned bearing a glass and a small bottle of mineral water - Perrier of course.

"Alright Grissom, what do you want?"

Well that was direct and to the point he thought, "That's twice you've got my name right Ms Babylon…..", she grinned wryly before he could finish…..

"It's a tactic Grissom, annoy someone enough and they usually get angry and say something they shouldn't; I say usually, because some people, like our beloved mayor, are too used to being insulted to pay any attention. Normally Waldorf sicks his ever-faithful Calliope onto me and tries to forget I exist. Calliope occasionally thinks he's funny and I imagine that's how you wound up puncturing my ego last time around."

While such candour was refreshing, Grissom didn't trust it, especially from this woman. 

"You came here Grissom, this is, after all, my house" Babylon reminded him, and there was no escaping the emphasis on the possessive. "You're obviously the one that wants something from me, so logically, I lose nothing by being honest about things which are of relatively little import. So tell me, why are you here?"

Grissom swore silently, damn her for being intelligent, unfortunately, beggars couldn't be choosers and thus decided he began to speak. 


	19. Bend Over and Spread

Iscariot's Glacial Productions Ltd Presents: Another Chapter in the long running stoooory of a quack that's gone to the dogs.. [With apologies to Jim Henson]  
  
So here we are again, another chapter. This one has taken me longer than usual because I've started writing two other fics. In a way I've achieved the impossible, I've found a way to update even more slowly.  
  
A special nod to one of my reviewers who asked me how the hell I'm going to wind this up...good question that..better start thinking about it. Also, she noted that she was sad that Greg hadn't got any.any what?? Heh. Seriously, I'd rather have fun with implication than writing a first year gynaecology text; we all know that tab A goes into slot B, do we really want a purple description? Personally, I'd rather screw with my characters heads.  
  
As always sincere thank-yous to my wonderful Beta 'tasha, who hasn't so much kept me on the straight and narrow as she has constantly harassed me to pull finger, thank her that this chapter is here before April.  
  
And finally, thank you, to you the reader. Your reviews keep me going, or stop me going..mad that is. Now, go forth and review (  
  
The best of man is like water,  
  
Which benefits all things, and does not contend with them,  
  
Which flows in places that others disdain,  
  
Where it is in harmony with the Way.  
  
So the sage:  
  
Lives within nature,  
  
Thinks within the deep,  
  
Gives within impartiality,  
  
Speaks within trust,  
  
Governs within order,  
  
Crafts within ability,  
  
Acts within opportunity.  
  
He does not contend, and none contend against him.  
  
Lao Tzu - The Tao Te Ching [Peter Merel trans]  
  
The visionary lies to himself, the liar only to others.  
  
Friedrich Nietzsche  
  
Bend Over and Spread 'Em - by Agatha Babylon.  
  
You know, I love Las Vegas; the vague hint of corruption in the morning does wonders for my moral compass. Maybe it's because I'm a bad girl more likely it's that if the food is off there's something rotten going on; rotten, is however, a euphemism for the almighty bureaucratic fisting we have before us today.  
  
You don't like my language? Get over it. There are things more important in this world that your damaged sensibilities; and if bureaucracy is allowed to run riot, as our dear jellyfish of a Mayor is going to let happen then a good solid fisting is infinitely preferable to the alternative.  
  
What alternative I hear you cry?  
  
The type of alternative that nails people to walls and quotes from great literature, that's what.  
  
See, we've finally caught a break; that's 'we' in the royal sense, as our city's finest - that's not the mayor for those of you who are a little slow - have discovered that our least favourite maniac is probably being fuelled by defective medication and what's more, the company and the type of medicine have been identified.  
  
So what's the catch?  
  
Well, City Hall is more nervous than a rat in a snake pit about potential lawsuits from the medical fraternity, civil rights groups and various liberal intelligentsia with a grip on reality similar to that of the Manson Family who apparently believe that protecting the civil liberties of the murderously inclined is more important than protecting everybody else. Unsurprisingly, it would appear that the chance of the city being sued is of greater concern to our administration than having more of its residents dressed out like carcasses in a butcher's shop; now, if we were experiencing a food shortage I could understand their reasoning, but I was at the supermarket this morning and the shelves looked pretty full.  
  
Now, don't get me wrong, civil liberties and the protection of individual rights are a fine thing, I'm the first person to defend someone else's right to smoke, drink or inject what they want or to copulate with as many people of whatever race, sex or creed as they need to in order to find inner fulfilment but - and heaven help me I never thought I'd ever say this - the needs of the many do sometimes indeed outweigh the needs of the one, be that one a psychotic killer or our beloved mayor and his individual need to protect his majority.  
  
Now, being the highly moral reporter that I am, I sought to verify the existence of this evidence, for who am I to cast baseless aspersions on the character of those in power? I went to the scientists, specifically, Gil Grissom, an annoying little bug whom some of you may remember has previously questioned my journalistic integrity. Whilst Grissom the bug refused to answer my questions, he did suggest that I direct any further enquiries to the Chief of Police.  
  
So here we are Mr. Chief of Police. Tell me, tell us, what's more important, the safety of your citizens or a bunch of rules designed to protect those that prey on them?  
  
****  
  
"Did she really call you Grissom?" asked an incredulous Brass, "After your performance at that interview I would have thought that the only way she'd contact you again would be by parcel bomb."  
  
"I was as surprised as you are Jim," was the disingenuous reply - although Grissom's surprise was more at the reporter's inventiveness than anything else considering he was less than five feet from said person at the time of the call. Thinking back to the previous evening he couldn't help laugh at Babylon's rationalisation that if she called him so that he could refuse to answer then he would technically be telling the truth if he was asked if she had contacted him; this, admittedly, tenuous logical chain was also predicated on no-one thinking to ask if Grissom had contacted her.  
  
****  
  
August 10 - Letters to the Editor  
  
Sir,  
  
It was with marked concern that I read the column, 'Bend Over and Spread 'Em' by Agatha Babylon. Does this woman not realise that if we undermine the rights of the individual to be protected then we inevitably open the door to state control of all expression. Certainly, any right-minded person would be concerned at the activities of this sadly deluded individual, but we must consider that the right to freedom of expression is protected in the First Amendment to the Constitution; we must, therefore, find another to address this issue that breaching this sacred right.  
  
Yours faithfully B. S. Rectitude, Las Vegas.  
  
Editor's Note: The Second Amendment protects my right to bear arms and the .303 I have by my side is the best First Amendment option I have if that psycho comes calling.  
  
Sir,  
  
Your correspondent, Agatha Babylon, appears to misunderstand the necessity for the level of confidentiality that exists between patient and medical practitioner. While it must be acknowledged that the actions of the individual to whom Ms Babylon refers are unfortunate, there is a wider principle at stake than suborning their rights in the name of punitive justice; namely that of creating and maintaining a safe environment for the patient.  
  
Criminal activity, of any type, is regrettable, but it must be remembered that the medical community, be it of the physical of psychiatric branches, is intended to cure and to and not to punish; I note that I have yet to see any medical procedure which included life-long remand or execution as being potentially therapeutic.  
  
But I digress.  
  
Would you ask a priest to disclose, that which was spoken under the sanctity of confession? Of course not and as such law protects the right to professional non-disclosure. The medical profession operates under the same strictures and by attempting to subvert doctor patient privilege you will inevitably undermine any trust people have in the profession.  
  
I remain Jack L Hyde [Dr] Chairman, Las Vegas Medical Ethics Committee  
  
****  
  
"Mary, get me Calliop...oh hello Corbin," Mayor Astoria's rant was cut off at the knees by the seemingly prescient appearance of his chief of police - possibly rising through the floor like a malevolent, uniformed spirit. "You were in the office?"  
  
Calliope nodded his assent. "Yup, the pedal-car was taken, so I took the opportunity to catch up on some paperwork"  
  
"Pedal-Car?"  
  
"It's all we can afford since..."  
  
"...the budget cuts. Yes, yes, evil Mayor Astoria, he who has single- handedly brought the police force of Las Vegas city to its knees with his skinflint policies."  
  
"You've been practising then?"  
  
"Mary wrote me a speech."  
  
"I wasn't aware she was your speech-writer."  
  
"Nor was I. She offered to find me a crowd to deliver it to as well."  
  
The chief grinned, the light granting his features a slight mephistophelian caste, "Now there's an offer to refuse, you annoy her again?"  
  
"If you count telling her she couldn't run her bookmaking operation out of City-Hall, then yes."  
  
"That it'd do it; anyway, was there a particular reason you were screaming my name or were you just lonely?" "Now there's a mental picture I didn't need Corbin; actually, yes, in answer to your question, I did want you for something specific: Babylon."  
  
"You've seen the paper over the last few days then?" Calliope held up his hand to forestall a reply, "Rhetorical, Waldorf. You can't have her arrested for writing an opinion piece."  
  
"How about slander?"  
  
"And the slandered party is?"  
  
"That would be me?"  
  
"You sound unsure; you can't have someone arrested for slander because you think they've hurt your feelings. The closest that article came to slander was calling you a jellyfish, and since you patently have only two legs and live on land you'd get laughed out of court for taking umbrage at a lightweight - albeit malicious - analogy."  
  
"How about incitement then?"  
  
"Incitement to what." Calliope sighed heavily; sometimes the mayor's ability to take offence undermined his political savvy with the resultant effect being Calliope's ulcer playing up as he mightily resisted the urge to push his employer under a bus. Continuing, the chief spoke as if lecturing one of his children, "Incitement is a verb, Waldorf, you know, a doing word; precisely what has Babylon's article incited people to do?"  
  
"To panic. About the Shakespeare killer."  
  
"I think it's a bit late for that Waldorf. Your population is already terrified. I doubt the inestimable Agatha Babylon could scare them any more than they already are. Truth be told, she does raise a fair point."  
  
"...and that is?" Astoria's tone was wary, he knew his chief well enough not to blindly walk into the verbal traps his friend enjoyed setting for him.  
  
"Whether client-patient confidentiality is necessarily within the public interest in all situations."  
  
Astoria's face fell, for here was one of the inescapable conflicts of public life; where the law ran counter to personal belief. "It doesn't matter whether she's right or not Corbin, my hands are tied. As much as I might like to blithely inform the medical profession that they can just suck it up and deal and that we'll take their records now thank-you-very- much, it's just not going to happen. Irrespective of whether such an action would cost me my career, there's the wider consideration of completely undermining aspects of the law, because if we undermine one branch of privileged information then everything else that rests of such a foundation will be pulled down around our ears like a house of cards.  
  
The mayor thought for a moment, "Alright Corbin, here's our official stance: No Comment."  
  
"I don't understand."  
  
"It's perfectly simple, while we can't be seen to come out on Babylon's side, our refusal to either support or condemn her article will get people talking; if the medical folk start getting agitated our response will continue to be No Comment with the addendum - if pushed - that any and all actions of the police and City Hall will uphold the law."  
  
"So you're stalling." It wasn't a question.  
  
"Who me? Corbin, I'm wounded. Let's have a drink."  
  
****  
  
August 11 - Headline:  
  
Mayor Fails Miserably to Allay Fears  
  
by James E. Viscerator,  
  
City Editor.  
  
City Hall: Mayor Waldorf Astoria released an official statement outlining the official position of the local commonwealth with reference to the latest rumour, due in part to the rampage of the eponymous 'Shakespeare Killer', that the usual confidentiality of Doctor/ Patient privilege should be suspended.  
  
"While it is true that current events are indeed of a most pressing concern, any suggestions that an abrogation of mandated constitutionally protected rights is precipitous in the extreme. Concomitantly, we feel that any definitive course of action seen to prejudice one societally protected group against another would further alienate one or both groups and therefore cannot be seen to be in the public interest unless such a course of action can demonstrably and ineffably be shown to act for the greater good of the commonweal."  
  
When asked for a translation the Mayor smiled politely and wished your reporter a good day.  
  
Informed political commentators remarked that the Mayor's speech indicated his coming of age as a politician but doubted it would do little to reassure anyone other than etymologists  
  
Public reaction to the announcement has been mixed with most respondents alternating between terror and outright terror.  
  
"I don't know what the mayor meant but I hope the next victim is his speech- writer," Commented one bystander. Another passer-by suggested that the only good the mayor's speech would do, would be in the stocking up of dictionaries, which could latterly be thrown at the psycho.  
  
Perhaps the only people reassured in the current crisis are local armament retailers who are doing a 'booming trade' according to spokesman Mike Bloemawaye.  
  
August 13  
  
Sir,  
  
I note that our esteemed mayor is once again playing dice with the universal concerns of the public. In a relative sense this is a quantum leap from his usual budgetary manipulation and is a political manoeuvre of lightning speed and the as complex as hallucinogenic square dance. Perhaps we can only wait and see if the cat is indeed let out of the bag or indeed if it really is a cat and not an axe-wielding maniac; if so, our only hope may be in trying to predict a series of actions we previously haven't been able to observe.  
  
Yours, Albie Heisendinger.  
  
Sir,  
  
It has always been known that a war is good for local industry and while we are not currently at war the current siege mentality, which hangs over the city, is the next best thing. I would like to compliment the mayor and the police on their inability to catch the killer as it has been very good for business and as a result, of great benefit to the local economy. In the period that this person has been in operation, sales figures indicate a fifteen hundred percent rise in munitions sales and the industry as a whole has taken on over fifty new staff.  
  
I also have a new Ferrari.  
  
However, I would like to suggest that any attempt to suspend doctor / patient privilege is a breach of a person's constitutional rights, and in this specific case it potentially undermines the ability of mine, and my colleagues, constitutional right to make money.  
  
Yours Faithfully N. R. A. Gunclub [Munitions Dealer]  
  
******  
  
The mood at the lab was tense. In the wake of Babylon's initial report Grissom had been called before various bureaucratic busybodies who had poked and prodded him in much the same way a small child does when encountering a cat for the first time. Unlike a cat, and because he didn't have any claws, Grissom neither hissed nor spat and refrained from running away and instead sat with an expression of saintly forbearance as he was asked questions that ran the intellectual gamut of the Zetetic Society to the PMRC with little focus on the issue at hand; to wit, whether the police investigation would be hampered or hindered by the latest media scrum. The reality of the situation was in actuality an investigation to the degree to which the department's arse was covered if the shit hit the fan. Bureaucrats are the same everywhere, thought Grissom; duck and cover then blame any survivors whose political connections failed to survive the fallout.  
  
In this particular instance, Grissom was the nearest bureaucratic target, since, according to bean-counter logic, as he was named in the article, he must be guilty. Although only Grissom knew that he was waist deep in something he was straight-facedly avowing that he had never dirtied his shoes.  
  
Of course infamy is a reflective thing and the additional membership of the night shift found themselves under a wholly unwelcome scrutiny.  
  
Somewhat inevitably it was Greg who found some small measure of humour in the situation and one evening as the night shift duly assembled they found that assorted name badges and implements had been left out for them.  
  
"Who the hell is Colonel Mustard?" Asked Nick, "And why have I been given a wrench?"  
  
"I believe it's a spanner," remarked Sarah somewhat mildly, apparently bemused into a meditative state by the candlestick she held in her hand.  
  
"You got any idea what's going on Warrick?"  
  
Warrick merely smiled, "I take it you never had Cluedo in Texas, Nick?"  
  
"Cluedo?"  
  
"He means Clue." Supplied Sarah. As Nick still looked confused she continued. "It's a board game, the whole idea is to solve a murder; Colonel Mustard is one of the characters and the spanner is one of the murder weapons." She grinned suddenly, "So did you do it in the Ballroom, Nick? Or maybe the Billiard room."  
  
It was Catherine's evil cackle, which diverted their attention; and in all probability stopped Nick from using his spanner.  
  
"What you laughing at Willows?"  
  
"Well, considering who's here I thought that would be patently obvious." She got up and gestured for the others to follow, "I thought I'd go find the Lab tech, in the DNA Lab and stuff him into the Gas Chromatograph."  
  
If the redheaded CSI had expected to surprise her younger colleague then she was sadly mistaken for when she, and the others, arrived en masse at the lab they were greeted by a broadly grinning Greg and four, individually prepared, cups of coffee. To compound the CSI's feeling that they had been set up was the wraith-like appearance of Grissom behind them.  
  
"How long Greg?"  
  
"Eight minutes twenty seconds, looks like I win."  
  
"You win what?" asked Sara.  
  
Greg laughed, "Grissom has a higher estimation of your deductive qualities than I do. He said it would take you five minutes or less to come and find out what I was up to, I told him that it would take longer as it was unlikely that you would have had your first coffee of the evening; I win."  
  
"We took a bit longer because we had to explain to Nick what Cluedo was," protested Catherine, she looked suspiciously at Greg and then Grissom, "Alright, what else."  
  
"How long Greg?"  
  
Greg glanced at his watch, "Just under two minutes, you win this time." He held up his hand to forestall the inevitable question, "Grissom reckoned it would take you less than five minutes to ask why you are really here, looks like he got one right." He paused, looked at the shift supervisor, and then added, "This is your fairytale Grissom, where do you want to begin?"  
  
The shift supervisor glanced around nervously, which in itself did little to reassure the gathered CSIs, before, with one final glance towards the door to check that no ninjas or KGB spies - or members of the mayor's office - were lurking in the halls, he began to speak.  
  
"We may have a problem." The others, with the exception of Greg, assumed a serious mien, the lab tech merely grinned.  
  
"What do you mean 'we' white man?"  
  
If Grissom was annoyed by this response it never showed, instead he acknowledged Greg's point with a brief wave of his hand and a quirked eyebrow; "OK, I'll rephrase, I may have a problem."  
  
"It's not your hearing again is it Grissom?" asked a concerned Sara.  
  
"Actually, it's his mouth..." interjected Greg, before succumbing to a murderous look from the older man.  
  
"Greg. Shut up. As I was trying to say, I may have a problem in that I let an emotional reaction lead me to instigate a somewhat inappropriate and wholly unprofessional response."  
  
The silence of the group clustered about the lab was encouragement enough for him to continue although it was abundantly clear that Grissom would rather be anywhere else than where he was now; like at a witch burning, for example, with him in the starring role as the witch, for he knew that if what he was about to say went further than this group then being burnt at the stake was the least of his worries.  
  
"I'll assume you've all been reading the paper of late." A moot point since the whole lab had been afire with debate as to whom Babylon's secret source was and whether it was someone within the lab. Grissom looked decidedly uncomfortable, but pressed on. "Let's just say that I spoke to the wrong person and perhaps may have revealed a few things that are perhaps considered not pertinent to the public interest."  
  
You could have heard a pin drop, onto cotton wool; in the middle of the cannon section of the 1812 Overture. To suggest that the Night Shift was surprised was akin to suggesting the Rasputin was mildly disliked by the Russian nobility. The irony was, however, that while everyone experienced some degree of shock at the revelation no-one could find it within themselves to be particularly upset as they had all at various times been faced with the odious legislative cliff-face of the constitution, which protected the interests of those whose very actions challenged the whole point of the constitution existing in place at all.  
  
It was Warrick, wry as ever, who broke the silence. "At least it was a well written article Grissom, so no-one - assuming they find out it was you - can accuse you of perjuring you oath for the sake of tabloid journalism." This proved too much for Greg, who, with a disorganised thump, fell off the desk he was sitting on, as he could no longer contain his laughter. Even Sara failed to maintain a professionally disapproving visage although she contented herself with merely rolling her eyes at the lab tech lying akimbo at her feet. Catherine was very obviously delighted, for it was she, perhaps more than perhaps anybody in the room, who had experienced the literal-minded intransigence of the law.  
  
"Never mind Grissom, from what the article said it's not clear that you actually gave away any pertinent information about the murders themselves or indeed how we think the killer operates, all you divulged was that we believe that the killer has a psychiatric condition and that we are unable to pursue this angle of investigation due to the laws that surround doctor/ patient confidentiality."  
  
Grissom didn't look happy, but shrugged his acceptance of the semantic differentiation his colleague made, if anything, scientific absolution was the closest a lapsed catholic like Grissom would get to forgiving himself for what he considered a gross professional lapse; even if he agreed with his every action.  
  
August 15  
  
Sir,  
  
Personally I think all the psychiatrists in the greater Las Vegas area should be rounded up and nailed to a wall until such time as the allow the police access to their records. Maybe then they'll have some concept of what the rest of the population is going through while they sit in their million dollar mansions and preach on the value of sanctimony - cunningly disguised as professional ethics I might add.  
  
I have professional ethics, they go like this: Never start anything, but if you get involved make sure you damn well finish it. This situation needs a resolution and I think that we're getting close to the time when those of us who didn't start this mess will rise up and finish it.  
  
Yours Faithfully, Charles Lynch, Col [Ret].  
  
August 17  
  
Sir,  
  
I write with reference to the comments - August 15 - made by Charles Lynch, Col [Ret]. While I can to some degree empathise with his concerns, at least insofar as I have no particular wish to see any number of people hurt or frightened, resorting to base vigilantism is not, and never will, be the answer. As with many of the grossly uninformed, Mr Lynch equates professional silence to a particular form of cowardice that is, ignobly, centred on the wallet; perhaps what he writes is a greater comment on the cynical nature of contemporary human society than it is on any particular 'best practise' scenario.  
  
What does surprise me is that Mr Lynch writes as an ostensible (former) military man; one would have thought that he at least would understand the necessity of adhering to strict guidelines of practise. Then again, perhaps he belongs to that particular strain of military thought, which adheres to the notion that the only safe enemy territory is one that has been levelled and remodelled as a car park. Alternatively, he could be the type of person that attaches a 'rank' to his name in order to capture the attention of well-endowed widows.  
  
Of course this is simply speculation, Mr Lynch may be an upstanding person of fine character, but when you're making a whole lot of assumptions and little else it doesn't really matter who you are, or indeed what your motives might be. Voltaire, the great French scientist and philosopher wrote, "I may disagree with everything you say, but I'll defend to the death your right to say it," and so be it, but someone equally wise wrote that people in glass houses shouldn't throw stones and that being said, how can we know if Mr Lynch isn't the Shakespeare Killer?  
  
If Mr Lynch was my patient you never would.  
  
Sincerely Ruth N. Justiss Ph.D [Dr] Markham Asylum for the Terminally Bewildered.  
  
*****  
  
It was just after eight in the evening when Greg's mobile chirped enquiringly at him.  
  
"'lo? Oh, hi Rilie..You're bored? Well, I can tell you that it isn't the most exciting place in the world here either; the magic kingdom we're not. I think the closest we came to excitement this evening was when Nick beat everybody at Cluedo and proceeded to do a victory lap around the lab..Don't know, deprived childhood I guess..No, that's deprived, not depraved, get your mind out of the gutter; sometimes I think you've got a midden for a brain..No, a midden, not a maiden.." If anyone had been in the lab at that point in time they would have seen the normally raucous lab tech blushing a particularly attractive shade of purple. "Now that's a very interesting suggestion Rilie, and you can bet that if we did that on top of my desk I would no longer be able to claim said desk as my own in the morning..Yes, I'm sure you'd look very good doing it though..Rilie.." this in a pained voice, "Are you trying to make me implode? No? Then don't try....I'm finishing at midnight..Why? You'll meet me here? Do I get a choice in this?..I didn't think so, see you at midnight then, and Rilie, stay the hell away from my desk."  
  
It was a profoundly shell-shocked lab tech that turned off his phone. Whilst true, that if Rilie followed through on what she'd said to him on the phone, he was in for a hell of a night, he'd really rather she didn't do it at the lab; unless it could be guaranteed that everyone else would be somewhere else, like Mars, for example.  
  
Greg's line of thought was interrupted by what sounded like a quiet cough, turning in his chair he saw a small, dark-haired woman at the lab's entrance.  
  
"Excuse me? I'm looking for Gil Grissom.." 


	20. Catfight at the OK Corral

Finally, another chapter. I have two reasons for this being a bit late. The first was that I wrote another fic in the intervening period, so obviously that took a bit of concentration. The second reason – the second very immature reason – was that only two people reviewed it so I sulked for two weeks; I'm sorry, but I really liked the new fic, I thought it was funny....so grumble snarl mutter &@!!^?! This chapter is not too appalling; if nothing else I can still write dialogue...as I said, I think I'm funny. Thanks as always to my Beta, 'tasha – even if her inbox has started bouncing my work when I send it to her. [She thinks I'm funny too, which is one of the reasons I keep her on]. Finally, thanks to those of you who read and all that other stuff.  
  
**********  
  
This is not a novel to be tossed aside lightly. It should be thrown with great force. Dorothy Parker  
  
A cucumber should be well-sliced, dressed with pepper and vinegar, and then thrown out. Samuel Johnson  
  
It had only one fault. It was kind of lousy. James Thurber  
  
"Excuse me? I'm looking for Gil Grissom." Greg looked at the woman appraisingly, she didn't appear to be one of the known threats to national security, those whose images were posted about the lab: of course you could never be really sure; take that Agatha Babylon for example, if City Hall was to be believed, she not only ran the public relations campaign for the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse but was also unkind to small animals and children.  
  
"Could you describe this Grissom for me," he asked, in his best approximation of professional suspicion.  
  
"About so tall," she replied, indicating a height somewhat taller than a midget and somewhat shorter than a basketball player, "Greying, blue eyes, smart mouth, doesn't tolerate fools and shows a completely unhealthy interest in insects."  
  
Greg's mouth quirked in a wry smile, "Well, you do more than read the newspaper it would appear, I think most of Las Vegas knows him as 'that nasty bug man' thanks to what that low-rent hack, Babylon, wrote. Anyway, may I ask who you are; the one thing you didn't mention, and should probably be aware of, is that Grissom hates surprises."  
  
"Well, when I'm not going by 'low-rent hack', most people call me..."  
  
"...Agatha Babylon," finished the completely mortified lab tech. "If you'll excuse me I'll go find Grissom for you then throw myself under a passing herd of lawyers."  
  
"That would be just wonderful" was the sardonic reply to his retreating back.  
  
When she was sure the younger man had gone, Agatha Babylon gave vent to a mournful sigh, it was one thing to have someone like Grissom decry her journalistic talents it was another thing entirely to have one of the vox populi confirm that that opinion was somewhat more widespread. She hated the fact that she gave a damn; she'd thought she was long past caring what another thought of her, but for some reason her façade of indifference was beginning to crack. Fortunately, things weren't quite so bad as to necessitate a descent into maudlin poetry 'about the first rays of sun on a winter's day', but she did feel unnaturally vulnerable and the events of earlier that evening, and the subsequent reason for her visit, hadn't made her new-found vulnerability any easier.  
  
It had been just after six o'clock and while she was tired from the day at work – being malicious wasn't as easy as it appeared – she was feeling invigorated; in part, the meeting, by non-specific definition, that she'd had with Grissom, had restored a measure of her faith in, if not the righteousness of her cause, her abilities. She'd also enjoyed the benefit of a long relaxing slower and the pulsating of the jets against her body had created a feeling of arousal that she had long abandoned to a purely mechanistic stress release. She wasn't sure what triggered the wave of emotion that swept her as she brought herself to a tumultuous climax, but she just shrugged, accepted it and determined that it wouldn't get in the way of her plotting, for now, she really was, at least in her own eyes, Babylon: Defender of the City.  
  
Well, okay, not really. She allowed herself a slight smile at the wonderful illusion and the potential it had for giving the mayor a major coronary; if she couldn't have the city she'd at least work to having the mayor six feet under in a pine box. Then again, she'd met the mayor's wife – who had the personality of a water buffalo on acid - at some petty bureaucratic function and it was more than likely that the mayor would welcome death over being locked in a room with her; Agatha thought it would be true justice indeed if she invited them to the next office party and arranged for the pair to be trapped in a lift for a couple of hours...or weeks even.  
  
She towelled herself off and wrapped her body in an oversized bathrobe, the soft yet gently abrasive fabric caressing her body like the hand of an experienced lover. Mentally, she shook herself; she was acting like a horny schoolgirl idolising the untouchable rock star except that this time it wasn't so much a person that was causing her intense discomfort as an ideal, an image of competence and security all wrapped up in a package that was oblivious to its own attractiveness; while she, Agatha Babylon, would not allow herself the luxury of pursuing one such as Grissom the thought of holding a person who challenged her on both a professional and personal level made her tingle in anticipation and arousal.  
  
She dressed, and after pouring herself a drink – bacardi and lime - decided to sit on the balcony and enjoy the early evening air. While she lived in a fairly exclusive apartment complex it was close enough to the city for some of the ambient pulse of the neighbourhood to permeate the gentrified surrounds. Looking around, she saw the children taking their miniature dachshund for a drag and heard the couple next door that had returned from their honeymoon the previous evening. It was then that she saw him or at least what she assumed to be a him, Dressed in a long coat with a Russian army hat pulled down closely over his ears he looked distinctly incongruous is the sultry evening air. Normally, she would have written such eccentricity off as random weirdness but there was something in the figure's preternatural stillness that disturbed her on an almost elemental level and while she could not attest to the fact it appeared that the figure watched her, watched her with a hunger almost palpable in its ferocity and almost yearning in its desire; whatever its intent it made Babylon feel like prey and the languid sensuality of before evaporated as she fled inside.  
  
Dismissing the absurd, that the mayor had sent a hit man, Agatha dared to think what every Las Vegan dared not, that HE had come for her. If that was the case, then the safest place was away and away at this point in time away meant only one thing to the frightened woman, Grissom. She didn't think of the consequences, she didn't care if would be pleased to see her; she didn't care if she ran over the neighbour's dachshund on the way there she just needed to be where he was.  
  
So here she was, standing in the middle of a lab wondering if she had made the right decision.  
  
About a hundred yards – as the bulldozer flies – across the building, Greg was approaching Grissom's office alternately considering what he was going to say and how he was going to remove his foot from his mouth to say it. As Luck, who is a sinister, malicious bastard, would have it, his shoulder clipped the doorframe as he entered and he stumbled into Grissom's office with the grace of hippo on ball bearings; Fate, Luck's less attractive younger sister, ensured the rest of the CSIs were listening to Grissom hold forth on something as Greg gracefully entered and spread himself across Catherine's lap.  
  
"Why Greg, I didn't know you cared."  
  
"Mmmphpgh" was the reply from Catherine's crotch.  
  
Grissom cocked a tired and wholly bemused eye at the tableau now spread across his office and waited for his young colleague to slowly extricate himself from his inappropriate sojourn in paradise [Hey, I can do purple with the best of them].  
  
"Urgh, sorry Catherine...." An inadvertent and geographically misaligned hand drew a sharp intake of breath from the older woman as Greg levered himself up.  
  
"You know Greg, I'm really starting to wish you did care." If possible, Greg blushed even more furiously but, never short of a word, he reduced Catherine to inarticulate mumbling when he told Catherine that if he'd known he'd get that level of response he'd arrange a discount for her.  
  
Warrick was not amused.  
  
Grissom was amused at Warrick's lack of amusement but hid his grin behind an abrupt clearing of his throat as he sought to bring the now chaotic proceedings under some semblance of control.  
  
"Was there something in particular you wanted Greg?"  
  
"You've got a visitor."  
  
"Are you planning on telling me whom it is, or do I have to guess?"  
  
"Right. Sorry. Babylon." No one mistook his words to mean that an ancient city or a whore on the back of a dragon were waiting for Grissom  
  
"Reception?"  
  
"No, my lab. Don't ask me HOW she got there," He held up a hand to forestall questions he couldn't answer, "I turned around and she was standing in the doorway asking for you."  
  
"So why didn't you bring her here then?"  
  
"I didn't know that you were in your office, I mean you could have been out with your brush and tub of red dust decorating doorknobs; anyway, I didn't really think it was a good idea to drag her around the building like some sort of stray animal."  
  
"And leaving her in a room filled with several million dollars of expensive equipment was a better choice?"  
  
"Maybe she'll fall into the Mass Spec. and your problems would be solved."  
  
"That's not very humane of you Greg."  
  
"You don't pay me enough to be humane Grissom, you barely pay me enough to supply you with coffee."  
  
"I thought you were charging a consultancy rate now Greg, it wouldn't be fair for Nick to have his nose completely out of joint for no reason, god alone knows we had to put up with his moaning for long enough.'  
  
"Maybe so Warrick, but a fifteen percent consultancy rate over and above a base salary of nothing still works out at nothing, I'd make more money with a bowl and a guide dog."  
  
"I thought you had a cat."  
  
"Can you imagine a guide-cat?" interjected Nick; "It would lead you into the middle of traffic just so it could see what would happen?" He favoured Greg with a sly smile "Then again, maybe that's not such a bad idea"  
  
"Gee thanks Nick"  
  
"We aim to please."  
  
Grissom's bemusement was fast becoming irritation, for amusing as his staff thought they were – and their day jobs were fairly secure – their alleged sense of humour was less important than the pressing concern of Viper Woman the Tactless roaming the lab despite the admitted fact that she had proved helpful of late.  
  
"Greg? Babylon. Now."  
  
The younger man paused momentarily; somewhat confused by Grissom's verbal shorthand, then catching on he nervously enquired "My place or yours?"  
  
"Yours, let's go," and the two men left only to stop abruptly as the sound of scraping chairs and hurried footsteps followed them down the hall. Grissom's eyebrow ascended towards the ceiling and momentarily looked to be challenging Leonard Nimoy for his crown, "And precisely where do you lot think you're going?"  
  
"With you; if you give me a few moments I'll sell tickets."  
  
"Thank you Catherine." Clearly no thanks were intended. "There is no need for you to attend, Ms Babylon came to see me, not present a guest lecture on how the media ignores science when it's inconvenient."  
  
"Greg's going," whined Sara unhelpfully.  
  
"Greg. Stay."  
  
"No."  
  
"What do you mean no?"  
  
"My lab."  
  
"You work there, you don't own it."  
  
"And you expect me to do my lab work in your office? You'll be shifting my toys then?"  
  
"OK, you can come; you lot, stay."  
  
"Grissom." – four-part harmony, average choir age: five.  
  
"You'll just follow won't you?" The CSIs managed to look anywhere except at their boss; the ceiling, in particular, appeared especially riveting. Grissom said nothing; he simply shrugged, turned on his heel and headed towards the lab.  
  
To Greg's relief, Babylon was sitting quietly in a chair when they arrived.  
  
"Hello Grissom, I see you took time to round up a posse."  
  
Grissom rolled his eyes, "They followed me home; do you want them?"  
  
Agatha reviewed the gathered trooped with an appraising eye, "Well the tall one is kinda cute, what are you offering?"  
  
"Free to a good home. Do you want him doctored?"  
  
"Well that would take all the fun out of it wouldn't it? What do you say big boy, you'll get your own water bowl and a bed by the fire."  
  
"Thanks all the same, but I'm fine."  
  
"What a pity." murmured the journalist.  
  
"Good choice Agatha, Catherine would have probably gone for your throat if you'd stolen her favourite chew toy."  
  
"And Catherine would be the lady turning bright red?"  
  
"Indeed."  
  
Agatha grinned at the other woman, "You have good taste; perhaps I could borrow him if you get bored?"  
  
Catherine did a remarkable impression of an engine running on a too-rich petrol mix. Warrick started to extend a solicitous hand, stopped, reconsidered and decided that no matter what he did he'd end up in trouble or severely embarrassed, probably both.  
  
While Babylon was thoroughly embarrassing his colleagues, Grissom took the opportunity to find himself a chair, seated comfortably, he returned to the topic at hand, why was Agatha Babylon in his lab? He was fairly certain that it wasn't a reciprocal visit; the kind practised by diplomats to show that they take other countries seriously, so, quietly puzzled, he decided to wait for the mystery to be revealed. It didn't take long.  
  
"I suppose you're wondering why I'm here Grissom."  
  
"Well yes, it did cross my mind. Initially I thought it might be for the wit and charm my company provides but as I'm not completely delusional I guessed you might be here for something else."  
  
Babylon laughed delightedly, "Of course I'm here for your company dear boy, if only because your company is infinitely preferable to the lurking presence that was hovering outside my apartment this evening."  
  
"You are aware that we have a police force to deal with lurking presences, nice folk, wear uniforms, drive cars with flashing lights."  
  
"Yes Nick, thank you for mocking the guest, I thought we had sent you on the 'ways to win friends and influence people' course." The Texan shot Greg a dirty look, despite all evidence to the contrary he still considered that the young tech was getting special treatment and it rankled. What rankled more was that his annoyance had become a standing joke amongst his colleagues; and it was threatening to reach epidemic proportions throughout the building.  
  
"Who's your attack Chihuahua, Grissom?"  
  
Grissom sighed, maybe if he closed his eyes they'd all go away. Unfortunately, despite his disapproval of the Texan's complete lack of manners, Nick did have a point. "It is a valid question, why come here? We're crime scene investigators, not police, it's not our job to arrest people no matter what you might see on all those stupid television shows."  
  
"True enough, but you're well aware of the fact that I currently have no faith in our police department, and you're assuming that even if I did have any faith in them they would have a spare pedal car available to answer my call. As scary as the thought is Gil, after our conversation the other evening, I do trust you, if for nothing else than to put a rational spin on my possibly irrational concerns." The hand she put on his arm as she spoke was missed by no one, least of all Sara, who struggled to resist the urge to growl possessively.  
  
Grissom was perplexed. Certainly, he was interested in Sara, and indeed, Greg had assured him that Sara's interest was reciprocal, however, his discovery of late that Babylon was, behind the façade of malicious insouciance, an intelligent, powerful woman and, somewhat surprisingly, fairly attractive. Perhaps it was the fact that her direct nature contrasted strongly with his more reserved self and Grissom, always fascinated by contrasts, felt himself torn between his adolescent idolising of Sara and his more primal and immediate response to Agatha.  
  
Greg thought it was funny.  
  
Greg was also wondering where he had picked up the ability to read Grissom's mind and if it was possible to get it exorcised.  
  
It was Sara, with all the tact and charm she could muster – which left room to spare in a midget's thimble – who managed to return the conversation, such as it was, to some semblance of relevance.  
  
"Was there anything in particular about this lurking presence, I mean why did it send you scuttling over here?"  
  
"Other than the fact that it scared the living shit out of me?" She winced inwardly at her delicate phrasing.  
  
Sara nodded.  
  
"Well, don't ask me why, but I was certain it was him."  
  
"Him?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"Him who?"  
  
"Shakespeare him." Oh god, she thought, I'm regressing, 'ugh, me Agatha, you, bitch'.  
  
"And why do you think it was the state's most notorious criminal? Was he wearing a sign?"  
  
"Well, if you'd been paying attention at the beginning of the conversation you would have heard me say that: It. Was. Just. A. Feeling." Agatha spoke slowly, as if presenting the information to a particularly slow student. Sara mentally winced; the last thing she wanted was for this first cousin to the Wicked Witch of the West to make her look bad in front of Grissom.  
  
"Maybe we should be scoring this," murmured Nick, "Or maybe not" on catching the death glare Sara threw his way.  
  
"Can we please return to the subject at hand?" Interjected an obviously agitated Grissom.  
  
Silence reigned, until one, lone voice hesitantly ventured, "errrrr what was the subject at hand?"  
  
"Agatha's stalker."  
  
"Probably a literary critic" snarked Sara, and silence one again held sway.  
  
"What would you know about literature? Just because you can read a DNA sequence from the little grey lines doesn't grant you any particular superiority, other than a particularly bad case of crow's feet."  
  
"That's fighting talk bitch, and if you were a normal height I'd do something about it."  
  
"I see. Not only are you ignorant, you're prejudiced. I bet you were a public relations joy at the midget convention; tell me, did Grissom put you on a leash or did he let you out with his attack Chihuahua to see how many people you could offend?"  
  
Grissom was nonplussed. Bugs he could handle. The empty threats of try-hard tough guys as they attempted to intimidate were not a problem. But never, not in his wildest dreams – or nightmares for that matter, did he expect to be refereeing a catfight in the middle of his DNA lab.  
  
Perhaps the remainder of his staff had the right idea as they backed away, attempting to negotiate a way out of the lab while maintaining a watchful eye on the combatants in case one of them decided to warm up with a bout of collateral damage. To Grissom's way of thinking, things couldn't get much worse, Murphy, being the bastard that he is, decided that was the perfect time for Riley to arrive.  
  
"Hi Greg, you didn't have to arrange a reception for me, yourself would have been just fine. Hello Grissom, any more annoying little problems you want me to solve?"  
  
"No thank you Ms Andrews, I don't have a specific need for your literary knowledge this evening, may I assume you've come to collect Greg?"  
  
"Shhhh, don't tell him that, he'll run and it's such a nuisance having to catch him again."  
  
"Do you mind!?" This from Greg.  
  
"Chasing you down? Not at all, but I could do without the sweat. Anyway, me boy, what time are you finishing?"  
  
Greg shrugged, "We were trying to sort out a little problem Ms Babylon had, or at least we were until she and Sara decided to go ten rounds over Grissom."  
  
Rilie cast an appraising stare over the two combatants, as indicated to her by Greg's nod. Babylon she knew of only by reputation and from the irrelevant fluff she passed of as journalism, she shrugged internally, everybody needed a day job no matter how deep the tawdry depths to which one sank. Sara, by comparison, she knew well, at least in terms of the descriptions supplied by her garrulous boyfriend. Admittedly, Greg had become more charitable in his descriptions of his former, and once again, colleague, as his bitterness at his former treatment eased with the passage of time. However, there were still traces of resentment and occasionally the young man backslid into referring to Sara as an emaciated emotional desert or a self-serving CSIborg; certainly her current expression hardly epitomised a font of nurturing joy, indeed, homicidal was the least descriptive of a raft of violent adjectives that could have been applied to her current mien, which was currently directed to the abbreviated woman in front of what she assumed was one of Greg's toys.  
  
"Fun and games huh?" The only answer was the audible sound of collective eye rolling and a strangled grunt of suppressed frustration from Grissom. Rilie, even from her brief encounter with Grissom at the campus café, knew that Grissom sometimes felt that he was trapped in a world populated by children, and that watching two, ostensibly professional, women apparently going to war over him made him would make him feel like he was trapped in his worst nightmare; an episode of Dawson's Creek.  
  
"Anyway," Rilie continued, "What's this problem? I have plans, I need Greg, and you're slowing me down." She grinned at Greg's blushing countenance; a look no one missed and that was stored away for future harassment and coffee blackmail.  
  
Grissom gave the young woman a grateful look before clearing his throat. "So, we were, I believe, trying to ascertain the possible identity of this person who you claim to have seen Agatha."  
  
"I did see someone Grissom, I don't claim to know who it was. What I did state was that they made me feel nervous. Whatever you, or your people," this was said with a sidelong glance at Sara, "May think, they were watching my apartment."  
  
"So you're not saying it was the Shakespeare Killer."  
  
"Well since I don't know who that is I can't rightly say can I? It's not like we've been formally introduced is it?"  
  
"I'd pay to see that." Quipped Sara.  
  
"Thanks bitch."  
  
Greg quickly intervened before the two could start arguing again, "Is there anyone other than our friend with the knives who would like to see you nailed to a wall?"  
  
"Other than the mayor?"  
  
"What did you do to the mayor?"  
  
"It's more a questions of what hasn't she done" noted Grissom. "It's a fair question, Agatha, whom have you particularly aggravated lately?"  
  
"Apart from Astoria?"  
  
"Apart from Astoria."  
  
"You" was the somewhat wry response  
  
"You?"  
  
"You. Grissom. Bug man."  
  
"I'm not sure if I would consider you aggravating, Ms Babylon, fascinating would be more apt; a bit like a bug really."  
  
"Maybe I should see if I can hire the charming fellow with the knives." She retorted, although her tone was undercut by a shy smile; it had been too long since she had had a sparring partner capable of giving as good as they got and she was enjoying the repartee.  
  
"Look, I hate to interrupt, but can we get back on track here? As fascinating as it is to watch the mating habits of the middle-aged I'd really like to drag Greg out for some good old-fashioned debauchery. So, if it's not too much to ask, can we stop with all the clever words and decide whether the lady with the sharp tongue is really being followed by the gentleman with the sharp knives and a passion for literature."  
  
"Debauchery?"  
  
"It's a big word that means sex, Nick."  
  
"Yes, thank you Catherine, I was actually wondering why it is that Greg has a life and the rest of us don't."  
  
"It's because we're dedicated professionals Nick."  
  
The lean Texan snapped his fingers, "That's right, I'd forgotten in all the excitement. Grissom? Warrick and I would like a pay rise so we can have lives too."  
  
"What about me?"  
  
"Sorry Cath, you've got a kid, you're not entitled to a life until she leaves home."  
  
"Grissom? Can I have a rise so I can send Lindsey to boarding school?  
  
"No."  
  
"What about my stalker?"  
  
"You want to send your stalker to boarding school?"  
  
Greg, with Rilie's ever so subtle elbow to the ribs, tried to bring the discussion back into focus. "Guys? We're getting a little off track here. Can we decide what we're going to do so I can go," before adding with a smirk, "My life is waiting."  
  
"You're so whipped Sanders."  
  
"No I'm not." Greg protested.  
  
"Maybe later," noted Rilie, with what sounded suspiciously like a purr.  
  
Grissom, for his part, was beginning to despair. While secretly enjoying the irreverent air that had permeated the lab - the addition of Rilie to the mix adding whole new levels of innuendo and sarcasm - it didn't address the problem at hand was the Shakespeare Killer haunting the footsteps of Agatha Babylon? He decided that once more, if only for the sake of his battered reputation – he would try to instil a serious air to proceedings.  
  
"While all this frivolity is vastly entertaining," he cast a grim look – again, solely for the purpose of resuscitating his battered reputation- in the general direction of his younger colleagues, "If it's not too much trouble could we please address the matter at hand."  
  
"Greg's imminent whipping?"  
  
Catherine this time and after all her years working at Grissom's side you'd have thought she'd have known better. If looks could have killed then Catherine would have been a small pile of smoking ash but she was saved by the arrival of Doc Robbins.  
  
"Evenin' all, is anyone free?"  
  
"We're trying, and I stress the word trying, to have a discussion, what's up?"  
  
"St Dementia's called, the Mother Superior just imploded and they'd like someone to have a look, there's not too much of a mess but they suggest that whomever goes takes a trowel."  
  
Grissom was wise. Grissom could read the signs. Grissom gave up. "Nick, Sara, you go to the convent. Agatha, can you come to my office? We'll have a chat there. Greg, Rilie, have a good night. Cath? Take Warrick and get out of my sight, go talk to Hodges or something equally painful. Coming Agatha?"  
  
As Grissom and Babylon departed the only sound was a whispered "Who was that masked man?" before the group split up and headed off on their designated assignments. 


	21. Much Ado About A Little Bit of Something

Another chapter: This one was a real battle – not only did I end up hating it, but I also crashed my motorbike halfway through it so writing was the last thing on my alleged mind. As always, to the readers, thanks for the patience; those of you still awake.  
  
This is a major Greg/ Rilie chapter full of shippy goodness that just makes me ill [and I wrote it]  
  
As always, thanks to my beta 'tasha, who has the patience of a Saint Bernard, or maybe a gerbil, who still returns my emails - even when I yell at her and other kind, respectful stuff.  
  
Special thanks to first-time ego-deflater, Kat, whose fault it is for the appearance of a certain Godmother; you asked for chains and whips and this is best I could do.  
  
Finally, a plug. If there's one thing I hate it's good stories that don't get appreciated and I recently came across a little gem in Stargate Section by Bizzylizzy titled: "A Go'uld in the Hand is Worth Two in the Bush." It's probably not everyone's cup of tea, but it's very well written with excellent characterisations. Please note that I neither know Lizzie, nor am I connected with her in anyway, so I'm getting nothing for being nice.  
  
For those of you interested, I'm going to start on another short Miss Edith adventure.

* * *

_I am a man  
Cut from the know  
Rarely do friends  
Come and then go  
She was a girl  
Soft but estranged  
We were the two  
Our lives rearranged  
Feeling so good that day  
A feeling of love that day_

**[Breaking the Girl – Red Hot Chilli Peppers]**

* * *

"So, where we going?"  
  
Rilie rolled her eyes, albeit good-naturedly for Greg resembled nothing so much as an overexcited border collie whose master had been overgenerous with the canine equivalent of methamphetamine. She did, however, refuse to mentally extend the analogy to comparisons about soulful eyes and lolling pink tongues; then again, there were all sorts of interesting things one could do with a lolling pink tongue if one was suitably encouraged.  
  
"Well, there's always Mike's, but I had something a little more private in mind; you, me, a bowl of whipped cream..."  
  
Greg smiled nervously.  
  
"...and speaking of whipping, how do you feel about being tied up for a few hours?"  
  
Where Greg had been nervous, he was now positively terrified. Sure it was terrified in a good way – assuming you can be terrified in a good way – but it wasn't one of his life's ambitions to be tied up in such a literal sense. "Thanks all the same Rilie, but the idea of being tied up and beaten doesn't really appeal; well not in the short term anyway."  
  
"What a shame," she murmured. "Are you sure? I learnt from the best. Anyway, who said anything about being beaten, you're not an egg and I've already prepared the cream."  
  
Greg pursued the earlier statement, his concern manifest, although not as manifest as his suspicion which was telling him to back carefully away from the strange woman – whom, his libido reminded his adrenal gland, he was currently dating. "What do you mean 'learnt'?"  
  
"A family friend is a highly regarded member of the profession."  
  
"I should have known." A horrifying thought occurred to Greg, "Please, tell me that this person doesn't work in Las Vegas and that she doesn't go by the name Heather, or more precisely, 'Lady' Heather."  
  
Rilie smirked, "Sorry Greg, can't tell you that. Why?"  
  
"She's a friend of Grissom's. He takes her his the weird-ass cases when he wants a different perspective. She gets on really well with detective Brass too; apparently they're kindred spirits; actually, they're kindred cynics but you don't want to say that too loudly around Brass. Anyway, Lady Heather has pretty much become the departmental consultant on all things involving leather."  
  
"Sounds fabulous, you'll have something to talk about when we visit, anyway, she wants to meet you."  
  
"You told her about me?" he asked, attempting, and failing miserably to make his high pitched squeak register somewhere in what could be charitably considered a baritone range.  
  
"Of course. I have tea with her every Sunday after she gets back from church; I mean, what sort of Godmother would she be if she wasn't looking after my best interests?" The women grinned at the young man's discomfort, "Don't worry Greg, I only told her that I was seeing someone and it wasn't serious." Yet, she added mentally. " "Anyway, Heather's not the sort of person who plays twenty questions about jobs and parents, her line of questioning is a lot more, shall we say, direct." Rilie fixed him with a piercing look, "I just hope you come up to standard boyo, cos sure as toasters lay eggs I'll get chapter and verse if you don't."  
  
Somewhat confused, Greg tentatively inquired as to why it would be Rilie who would get hell from her Godmother if he didn't measure up. Rilie refused to answer and her normally imperturbable demeanour glowed a healthy pink. Greg briefly considered emigrating to Siberia but decided that it was probably more chivalrous to see just how much trouble his girlfriend was going to get him into, although with the inimitable Lady Heather involved just about anything was possible. In a general sense, it was usually a toss up between Grissom and Rilie as to whom he least liked to annoy, but not turning up to work was, in the long term, less of a worry than upsetting a woman who in all probability had access to whips and sharp, pointed objects through her connection to her Godmother.  
  
The reality, of course, was somewhat different. In actuality, Rilie was blushing at what Greg thought Heather would question her about in terms of his performance. In truth, her Godmother would have gutted the younger women if Greg had turned out to be afflicted with any number of the infamous social diseases and lack of social graces that routinely cropped up in the non-distaff side of the Andrews gene pool, for if there was one thing the redoubtable madam constantly reinforced to her young protégé it was that rakish good looks and a spectacular sexual endowment did not automatically bestow grace, charm or intelligence. Certainly, Heather acknowledged that physical attraction was important. But so was the ability to count past twenty without removing ones shoes. Indeed, the ability to converse without resorting to crudities or monosyllabic grunts was something to be highly prized. In the final analysis, if Rilie ended up with someone whose resemblance to a Neanderthal was more than simply picturesque, then Rilie was in for a world of hurt. Unbeknownst to Rilie, Heather had sworn to the girl's mother before she died that she wouldn't let Rilie end up with someone like Rilie's father and to that end she had taken a personal interest in her closest friend's only daughter.  
  
Too much thinking about one's chances for survival in the face of an expectant, and potentially wrathful, godmother - with a checklist - inevitably sent Greg off on a weird mental tangent. He was just beginning to consider whether the priests' got danger money and additional counselling for hearing Lady Heather's confession when Rilie pointedly kicked him in the ankle in an attempt to regain his attention.  
  
"So. Are. We. Going?"  
  
"Going where?"  
  
"Mars, to look for Osama bin Laden."  
  
"Gee, sarcastic much."  
  
Rilie rolled her eyes theatrically, "You don't miss much do you Greg; we're going to Lady Heather's where you will be tied to a chair, a bright light shone in your face and all manner of questions will be asked about your relationship with your cat."  
  
"What about my cat?"  
  
"Are you being purposefully thick Sanders? Or is this a heretofore- undiscovered natural ability because if it's the former and not the latter you're going to be more celibate than a monk marooned on a leper colony."  
  
"But I'm celibate at the moment."  
  
"...and if you don't shut up you'll die that way."  
  
Even Greg could take a hint...eventually. "So..." he ventured bravely after a period where several couples skated past the pair and numerous elves could be heard muttering about being lost and how this didn't look anything like the North Pole, "...Lady Heather's then?"  
  
Rilie simply held out her hand and, with something resembling equanimity, the young couple walked hand-in-hand towards their cars.  
  
"Yours or mine?" Greg asked politely.  
  
"Mine I think." Rilie replied. "First of all, if we leave your car here overnight, no-one's going to call the bomb squad out to examine an unknown vehicle and second" she continued over Greg's muttered comment about paranoia, "I know where I'm going, so I may as well just take my car. I can give you a lift to varsity in the morning."  
  
"OK," said Greg. "Ummmm Rilie? Why are you giving me a ride to school tomorrow?"  
  
"Because you're staying at my place."  
  
"I'm staying at your place?...I'm... staying... at your place...ohhhhhh...I'm staying at YOUR PLACE!!!"  
  
It was sad, Rilie thought, that someone so intelligent and so talented – and so goddamned cute – was at times just so completely clueless. It was, she decided, probably the fault of the penguins in Greg's childhood. They had scarred his ability to have a normal relationship; this, ironically, from the woman with Las Vegas' most notorious madam as a godmother. Nevertheless, Rilie knew that she was going to be pretty upset if she had to dress in heavy, starched cotton and carry a ruler in order to make Greg's temperature rise.  
  
The ride through the city to Lady Heather's was uneventful, that is, no one was run over, which was always a good chance if Greg was driving. Also, most of the traffic laws were obeyed; except for the pesky one that required cars to slow to a reasonable speed when travelling through residential areas, Rilie was too determined to get her, somewhat spooked, boyfriend to her Godmother's before he chickened out and took a header out of the still moving car; thankfully the locking was central and childproof. It's not that Rilie was speeding – much – it was more that she was going fast enough to dissuade Greg from any precipitous, and wholly reflexive, action.  
  
Greg, for his part, was in a daze; it was like Santa and the Easter Bunny had come to visit on his birthday. Certainly, he had some concerns about meeting Lady Heather, but that concern largely arose from the grandiose epics Brass had been known to regale the staff with in between murders, mayhem and the occasional act of gross stupidity on the part of the citizenry-at-large. Brass, usually silent and severe – although Greg, well aware of Brass' despair at his daughter's lifestyle, knew that was just an act – always seemed to warm at mention of the woman and his usual, gruff responses became positively Homeric in singing her praises. Privately, Greg thought it was some sort of private joke, at Lady Heather's expense, on Brass' part and the young man sincerely hoped he was around for the punch line; assuming, that is, that he survived this evening. The fact of the matter was not that Greg was scared of Rilie. Far from it. He wasn't in his heart-of-hearts overly concerned about Lady Heather either; if necessary, he smiled inwardly he could still run. What he was scared of, and you'll excuse the pun, was screwing things up. Not in the sense of saying the wrong thing or using the sugar tongs to pluck his nose hairs, but in opening himself up for rejection. Certainly his confidence in himself and his faith in the world and (some) of its denizens had grown of late but one swallow does not a summer make and six months of happiness doesn't make up for a lifetime of disappointment and self-doubt  
  
It was in the midst of this introspection that they arrived and it was only as Rilie's door opened that Greg returned to the present. Rilie had briefly wondered why Greg had fallen silent on the drive but as he didn't look upset she decided that it wasn't worth pursuing, after all, people were allowed to not speak if they wanted.  
  
On getting out of the car, Greg took a second to review his surroundings; they certainly didn't 'wholly' resemble the description handed down by Brass for if that were the case there would have been dragons and a moat. However, Lady Heather's mansion, for want of a better word, was Victorian, elegant and large, with, an admittedly discreet, car park filled almost to overflowing with Euro-luxury cars in which Rilie's battered Toyota seemed like a somewhat bewildered intruder parked as it was beside a monolithic silver Mercedes with city hall number plates; probably the Mayor, Greg surmised, if what he'd heard about the man's wife was anything to go by.  
  
"Greg? You ready?" It was Rilie, looking mildly impatient as she gestured towards the entrance.  
  
"What? Sorry, just admiring the view" he gestured towards the panoramic display of the city below. "This place must be worth a fair bit,' he said, gesturing towards the building and its surrounds.  
  
"I guess." Rilie shrugged, "I don't know a lot about real estate. I know Heather picked it up about ten years ago. It belonged to an apocalyptic cult or some such. Anyway, they all topped themselves in accordance with the instructions left by the flying saucer taxi service and after the investigation was closed it went on the market; apparently it was pretty cheap."  
  
"That's not uncommon," Greg replied. "Once you take away the ghoul-factor, your average person doesn't want a lot to do with places where people have been killed, bad karma I guess. There was an investigation a few years back into a mob-controlled property scam where the occupants were killed on a 'to-order' basis and the mob picked up the houses cheap later on."  
  
"How were they found out?"  
  
"The average house price in Vegas Heights dropped a hundred and fifty thousand dollars" Greg grinned, "That, and there were nine murders in a two block radius over a fifteen month period; the police might be a little slow but they're not entirely stupid." He looked up and gestured towards the house "Is that someone waiting for us?"  
  
Rilie turned to look where Greg was facing where the light coming from the open door of the house silhouetted a woman's figure. "C'mon, that's Heather," she said as she grabbed his arm and dragged him forcibly in the direction of the light.  
  
"Good evening Rilie," and with a polite inclination of her head in his direction, "This would be Greg?"  
  
Greg nodded, somewhat awkwardly, and groped for a response somewhat removed from an asphyxiated gurgle.  
  
The older woman turned an exasperated, yet amused, gaze on her Goddaughter, "What have you been telling the boy Rilie? I don't bite Greg; it's not part of the service. I knew who you were through a simple process of deduction, well that and Mike described you in greater detail than Rilie did." A bell- like laugh pealed in the evening air as Greg's expression assumed a hunted mien, "Not to worry dear boy, Mike recalled you from when you were playing pool."  
  
"Rilie didn't tell me her family ran a spy network."  
  
"You've got it easy Sanders," was the riposte, "You try living with it. I swear sometimes I come up here for Sunday lunch and Heather's got a list of everything I've done that week."  
  
"One likes to keep informed Rilie, you never know when I might have need to blackmail you into painting the fence or weeding the garden."  
  
"You have a gardener, and you could probably buy any decorating business in the Las Vegas area."  
  
"But that's not the point is it? What is the point in having family if you can't put them to work? Come, let's go inside, I have a nice pot of tea waiting in the study."  
  
Greg was slowly relaxing, Lady Heather appeared not to be the terrifying presence of his imagination and so far she seemed far more in keeping with the stereotypical dotty British Aunt than an infamous dominatrix; the study, beautifully appointed in wood panelling and redolent with the smells of beeswax candles and rosewater, appeared only to confirm this assessment of channelled Britishness. This was not to suggest of course that the woman in question was elderly or a frump bedecked in a curious hodgepodge of cast- offs and ill-considered finery. Lady Heather was elegant, dressed to the height of, albeit somewhat gothic inspired, fashion; and to call her beautiful was to slight the woman whose bearing was at once both regal and the embodiment of alluring.  
  
"Tea, Greg?"  
  
"Pardon...? Oh, yes please. As God intended it, thanks."  
  
"Can I assume that means without milk or sugar."  
  
Greg grinned, "Yes ma'am." Oh God, he thought, I'm channelling Nick.  
  
"Ma'am? I know you were a little freaked about coming here Greg, but reverting to manners and courtesy? You must have been more traumatised than I thought."  
  
"That will do Rilie."  
  
"Yes ma'am."  
  
Lady Heather, or Heather, as she had asked Greg to call her, gestured for her guests to sit and Greg found himself reclining in a sturdily made leather armchair that just reeked of understated class and taste. Just as well Benzene isn't here, he thought, she'd take one look at this set-up and I'd be short a cat.  
  
"So, I guess this is the bit where you quiz me about my intentions towards your Goddaughter."  
  
The older woman laughed, "Heavens no. Rilie is perfectly capable of looking after herself. Has she been feeding you stories about how I was going to Gestapo you until such time as I decided that you were an appropriate suitor?"  
  
Greg nodded mutely while Rilie tried not to laugh.  
  
"Rilie? Have you been telling lies?" Lady Heather's failure to keep a straight face was matched by Rilie's twinkling eyes.  
  
"No ma'am, but then," she conceded, "I haven't been telling the whole truth either." She looked fondly at the young lab tech, "Then again, Greg's so damn trusting that I could have sold him the Brooklyn Bridge if I'd wanted to."  
  
"That's not true Rilie," Greg protested, "You know I couldn't afford it."  
  
"You're a highly paid consultant Greg, of course you could." Greg snorted in amusement.  
  
"So, what do you do Greg? Rilie's mentioned that you're a scientist, but she wasn't particularly forthcoming when I asked her what you did, which was most unusual." She cast an arch glance in her Goddaughter's direction, "Normally, I can't shut her up."  
  
Curiouser and curiouser Greg thought, "Are you sure this is the same Rilie we're discussing? I've met bricks more inclined to garrulousness."  
  
"It's a familiarity thing. That and the fact that if she didn't talk me to me she'd probably implode; her family was never one to actually listen, especially to a woman."  
  
Greg shrugged as Rilie tried to disappear into her chair. To save her blushes – for 'twas the gentlemanly thing to do – Greg returned to the topic at hand. "To answer your question, I'm a forensic chemist, I work for the LVPD Crime Lab."  
  
Lady Heather smiled delightedly, much like a shark let loose in a paddling pool, "You don't work with Grissom and Brass do you?"  
  
"Grissom's my boss. I'm not quite sure how to describe Brass."  
  
"Comic relief." Was the murmured response.  
  
"Maybe," he conceded dubiously, "But at work it's more a case of a bad cop, worse cop, with Brass in both roles. Sometimes I think he's competing with himself to see how long it takes to terrify the latest victim into submission; either that or he needs to severely reduce his caffeine intake."  
  
"He's good people."  
  
"Certainly, although I think you'll find the wider Las Vegas criminal community might beg to differ. Then again, he's not running for King-of-the- Underworld so it's unlikely that he's chasing the popular vote."  
  
Rilie sat and watched the banter between the two, her stoic impression hiding the degree of relief she felt. True, her intimations of torture had been somewhat overstated, but she also knew her Godmother. Heather, while the epitome of courtesy wasn't one to swallow her opinions for the sake of politeness – at least not with family – and it was the plain truth that if she didn't like Greg then that feeling would have been patently obvious even to the most obtuse of individuals. Fortunately, at least for Rilie, Heather seemed delighted to find another person to swap innuendo and veiled insults with. That being said, Rilie wanted to leave, she had an itch that needed scratching and the cream wouldn't keep forever.  
  
Lady Heather, for her part, hadn't reached her position in society, or business, by being stupid. She knew that Rilie genuinely liked this young man and that in itself was enough for her to cut Greg some small measure of slack and she had found that, once he had overcome his initial trepidation of the Big-Bad-Lady-Heather, Greg proved to be a wholly acceptable young man. Certainly, from cursory examination, he could verbally fence with the best of her clients and friends and to Heather's mind, anyone with command enough of the language to fence with her was a welcome addition to the social circle. Now it was time for the young people to leave, not so much because she was especially busy, but because her goddaughter looked ready to implode; sexual frustration was no-one's friend, especially the young, and Heather hoped that Rilie – and Greg – got what they both so obviously deserved.  
  
"Well, Rilie, you'd best be off, I have things to do. I have to untie the Mayor in about ten minutes and the Archbishop has a flagellation booked with one of my new staff that I have to oversee." She gave the young woman a hug discreetly whispering in her ear that she wanted a full report after church on Sunday. "Greg, it was a pleasure to meet you. I look forward to seeing you again. Do give my regards to Brass and Grissom won't you?"  
  
"Yes ma'am."  
  
Lady Heather grinned, in a refined and dignified sort of way. "He's such a nice boy. Alright then children, good evening. Rilie, you'll see yourself out?"  
  
"Sure Heather, goodnight."  
  
Greg and Rilie left the mansion, neither looking behind to see the clandestine rustle of the curtain as they climbed into the car and drove away.  
  
"Right. My place."  
  
"Your place it is."  
  
"You leave food out for that psycho cat of yours?"  
  
"She'll be OK. She's got the automatic feeder and I set the postman trap before I left."  
  
"Postman trap?"  
  
"You know, from the children's television show," Greg whistled a jaunty jingle, then proceeded to sing, "Postman trap, Postman trap, built to feed his black and white cat...."  
  
"Sanders you're nuts."  
  
"...and that's why we're going back to your place so you can cover me in whipped cream?"  
  
"Something like that."  
  
"Right" he said, turning on the car stereo, "Let's get going then."  
  
If Joan of Arc had a heart  
  
Would she give it as a gift  
  
To such as me who longs to see  
  
How an angel ought to be  
  
Her dream's to give her heart away  
  
Like an orphan on a wave  
  
She cared so much she offered up  
  
Her body to the grave  
  
Grissom and Babylon had escaped the ordered chaos that had descended on the lab as people left to perform various duties. Despite the fact that Grissom had assigned, no, ordered, everyone back to work, several members of the team had hung around to talk. In Catherine's and Warrick's case it wasn't so much a case of engaging in idle gossip as it was that they didn't want to venture into the lair of the Hodges; the tech being an eternally, slimy, irascible presence unless of course Grissom was around, whereupon he was merely slimy and unctuous. Now, seated in Grissom's office, Agatha again recounted what had happened outside her apartment albeit minus the repartee, bitchy commentary and seemingly constant interruption as one CSI after the other attempted to demonstrate whose foot fit best in their mouth.  
  
"OK Agatha, we've established that you saw someone outside your apartment that severely spooked you, largely, because you believe you caught them watching you on your balcony."  
  
"Yes."  
  
"What we weren't able to establish, due to my colleagues 'enthusiasm' was why you thought this person might be the Shakespeare Killer." Grissom winced as he uttered the despised moniker. He intensely disliked the media's almost childlike joy in applying a garish label to such criminals. In Grissom's mind it only granted such people a degree of social glorification they weren't entitled to.  
  
"As I was trying to say back in lab, I don't know what made me think it was him; call it a feeling, call it journalistic instinct, hell, call it a woman's intuition if you like but don't ask me to quantify something that I can't." She grinned wryly, "Anyway, it's not like we've been introduced so I couldn't put a name to the face; not of course," she added, "that I actually saw a face."  
  
"Can you describe this person?"  
  
"Well, they were big."  
  
"How big?"  
  
"This big."  
  
"That big?"  
  
"That big,"  
  
"That's big."  
  
"I thought so."  
  
"Clothing?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"I meant can you describe the person's clothing?"  
  
"I couldn't make out designer labels if that's what you're asking but they weren't dressed in rags either. Maybe army surplus? I don't know. They just looked like clothes, big clothes, but just clothes. Maybe he shops and tall- and-wide or whatever those oversized clothes places are called."  
  
"Somehow I can't see us having much luck asking questions about whether any of their regulars has killed anyone lately."  
  
'They might be able to give you an inside leg measurement though."  
  
"An inside leg measurement is not a murder weapon Ms Babylon."  
  
"Have you ever had your trousers ride up on you?"  
  
There wasn't a whole lot Grissom could say to that, so he suggested that the two of them go to the area where Agatha had purportedly seen her ominous looking watcher and from there decide what, if anything, could be done.  
  
He stood, automaton-like in the corner a stringless golem no more capable of independent action than a mewling child, for all that he made less noise.  
  
"We were seen. The voice saw. How can we silence the voice if it spies our coming?"  
  
"Peace brother, there will be other opportunities." "That as may be sister, but this vessel is failing us. Should happenstance and mercurial chance take vengeance upon us then how long must we wait until such an opportunity presents again itself?"  
  
The response was passionless. "We are eternal. Should this vessel fall by the wayside then shall we continue in another time and another place."  
  
"The point is acknowledged. Yet sacrificing such a powerful vessel seems wasteful."  
  
A third voice entered the conversation.  
  
"It would have been less wasteful if hadn't left our scent back at the house of the voice."  
  
"Then let us return and remove all trace our presence."  
  
"It is too late. The voice has gone and she shall return with the mind. The hunt is on my brethren, let us not tarry in its playing out."  
  
"Alright Agatha, where did you see this person?" The two were standing on Agatha Babylon's balcony looking out towards the area where she had seen the watcher. Despite the fact that it well after dark, so after dark in fact that even the more respectable muggers and rapists were making their way home, the area was dimly, but clearly, lit by one of the many streetlamps that proliferated; it was actually surprising that people managed to navigate a straight path safely due to their profusion; the local skating clubs regularly used the area for close-quarters slalom practise.  
  
"Down there," she indicated a large oak.  
  
"Shall we take a look?"  
  
"I guess." It was the uncertainty in her voice that made Grissom regard the small woman beside him with more intensity than usual and what he saw there surprised him, Agatha Babylon was scared.  
  
"It'll be fine, even in the unlikely event that he's still around he's not going to attack the two of us in broad day...night...errrr...streetlight." Well I hope not thought Grissom, it's not like I can beat him off with red fingerprint dust.  
  
The pair left the apartment and cautiously, perhaps overly so to Grissom's mind, approached the area that Babylon had indicated from her balcony. The tree in question was relatively old, not so old that Robin Hood was about to swing down from the branches, but old enough that long-time residents of the area remembered it being there when they first built their condominiums.  
  
"Nice tree." Excellent Grissom. Way to instil confidence. She thinks sees a maniac and you comment on the tree.  
  
Babylon looked at him oddly.  
  
"Never mind," continued Grissom. "Now, where was this person in relation to the tree?"  
  
"He was about...." She began to move to indicate the position more closely when Grissom stopped her.  
  
"Just point, he may have left shoe prints in the dirt."  
  
"OK," she pointed "There."  
  
The CSI carefully approached the area indicated and lo, there were two clear impressions in the soil at the base of the tree. He snorted internally; this was the closest anyone had come to finding anything resembling a physical clue in the years the case had been open. This guy's getting sloppy, Grissom thought, he's usually far more careful. If Grissom had been able to see into the killer's mind he would have seen not a tendency towards sloppiness, but like an omnipresent ticking, an imminent and inevitable countdown to implosion.  
  
As he bent to more closely examine the impressions he extracted his tape and began to take precise measurements of every aspect of their appearance and, some ten minutes after he'd sent Babylon back to his van to get some plaster for a mould, he began to cast. For her part, Agatha hadn't been very happy about being sent, by herself, to the van but two things had swayed her. The first, was that the van was in a clear line of sight of the tree, the second, and probably more cogent reason, was that Grissom offered to let her stay by the tree while he got the plaster; that had pretty much decided things.  
  
"Well, you were right about one thing."  
  
"And what was that."  
  
"That whomever was here was pretty big."  
  
"What makes you say that?"  
  
"Well, the size of the imprint for a start, but also the depth they've sunk into the ground, large people have greater mass and sometimes that mass is expressed in ways useful to the evidentiary process."  
  
"Huh?"  
  
"We can make a good estimate as to the person's height and weight based on these impressions."  
  
"Oh."  
  
As Grissom bent to examine the casting, Babylon found herself looking more closely at the tree. For what, she didn't know, maybe Grissom was rubbing off on her. She was just about to turn away when something caught her eye.  
  
"Grissom?"  
  
"Yes?"  
  
"What's that?"  
  
"What's what?"  
  
"There, on the tree."  
  
Grissom examined the area beside the impressions left by the Watcher's shoes not knowing precisely where Agatha was indicating.  
  
"No. Further round." And there, at elbow height, or neck height on Babylon, was a tiny patch of fabric, green, similar in style to the fabrics regularly used in army-surplus.  
  
Grissom rose, carefully, and stepped around the plaster mould taking great care not to disturb anything. Withdrawing a magnifying glass, from one of his many pockets, he bent to examine the fabric and there, tightly wound and caught in the tear was a single, dark hair. 


	22. Love for the Broken and Crucified

Another chapter. At this rate we'll be finished by 2007.  
  
I would like to note that the end is in sight. Sort of.  
  
As always, thanks to my wonderful betas, Kat and 'tasha  
  
Now: Go. Read. Enjoy. Review. [Be honest and brutal]  
  
Also: If anyone would like to suggest another project please do; it doesn't have to be pure CSI.

* * *

_There is no end to this._

_I have seen your face._

_But I don't recognize all these things._

_You must have kept behind._

_It's a problem, you know._

_That's been there all your life._

_Tries to make you see the world without you._

_That's just some black and white._

_At night it gets cold and._

_You'd dearly like to turn away._

_An escape that fails._

_And makes the wounds that time won't heal._

_Hello, hello, hello, hello._

__

_There is no end to this._

_I can't turn away._

_Another picture would deceive._

_History'd say._

_There is no room to move._

_Or try to look away._

_Remember, life is strange._

_And life keeps getting stranger every day._

_A mass of harmless attitudes._

_All tied up all subside._

_No matter what they say._

_You knew your heart beats you late at night._

_Your heart beats you late at night._

**NEW ORDER: PROCESSION**

* * *

"Sanders!"  
  
It was a voice that could bend metal and one, which even in the depths of Rilie-induced sleep deprivation, he could instantly recognise.  
  
"Professor Mueller" he replied, turning to face the autocratic presence bearing down on him with all the grace of Jaggernath mashing hapless Indian peasants, "what can I do for you this morning?"  
  
"Your composition," she snapped peremptorily, "where is it?"  
  
"Composition? What compo....ohhh for the competition you mean? That's at home somewhere."  
  
"What do you mean by 'at home' and 'somewhere'. You know full well that it is to be submitted by the end of next week. "  
  
"How could I forget?" he murmured before catching the look of impending implosion of the professor's face. He shrugged, "Sorry, I've been busy with other things. Don't you worry though professor it will be submitted on time." Assuming the world doesn't end, or we get a rash of killings, or a busload of nuns explodes...or...or something, he thought. Of course, he pondered, there's always the possibility that Rilie could abduct me for the weekend. Or I could abduct her. Or we could abduct each other. Or there could be a cream shortage and we'd have to investigate....and then abduct each other.  
  
It appeared that the professor didn't wholly accept his explanation and Greg was distracted from his internal monologue by a sharp slap across his face.  
  
"Professor, I don't think you're supposed to assault the students. In fact, I'm fairly certain that the reason half the senior class had a restraining order served on you was for that very reason." Rilie was a mine of useful information.  
  
"Then pay attention. And stop smiling."  
  
"Smiling?" Christ, he thought, would you like me to fetch a stick? Or perhaps roll over and play dead? He rapidly quashed the later thought as Mueller would happily arrange his death and then set fire to the casket with a flame-thrower just to make sure.  
  
"Yes, smiling, you scabrous little insect. Nobody smiles at me. Why are you smiling you insubordinate little pustule?"  
  
Greg attempted to remodel his expression into something suitably grave and attentive and failed miserably. In fact, the harder he tried the worse things got. He tried to defend himself, assuring the professor that he wasn't laughing at her but that only made things worse. Fortunately, for Greg, he lived in enlightened times, and as such the professor's threat to attach electrodes to his testicles - and connect him to the national grid - was greeted with something approaching equanimity; assuming, of course, that the definition of equanimity involves collapsing to your knees with tears of laughter streaming down your face.  
  
Mueller had gone nuclear by this point and it was that which saved him as staff appeared from all corners of the faculty to drag the irate professor off as she made a last, desperate grab at the silently convulsing student while threatening to rip his lungs out through his rib cage and mount them on either side of his head.  
  
As the yelling, screaming and threats followed the inchoate professor, and her minders, down the hallway, Professor Doppler, the Head of the Music Department, poked his head around the corner of his office door. "We really have to do something about the amount of coffee that woman drinks," he mused. He didn't appear surprised, or even upset, at Mueller's outburst, as if what had happened was an infrequent, but not entirely unknown, occurrence. Shrugging, he turned his attention to Greg, who was no longer laughing and seemed to be internally debating whether to be outraged or to go into shock.  
  
"I wouldn't worry too much Mr Sanders. In fact, one might even construe the professor's behaviour as a compliment."  
  
"So if she really liked me I'd be dead?"  
  
The temperature in the corridor seemed to drop several degrees "How very glib."  
  
The Professor shook his head sadly, "You misunderstand me young man, perhaps purposely, one cannot say, however, you have been privy to the idiosyncrasies of this establishment long enough, combined with your liaison with the inestimable Ms Andrews, to be aware that Professor Mueller's reaction to your presence is inversely proportional to the amount of talent you display. While I certainly can't condone her behaviour, I'm merely suggesting that you take it for what it was instead of treating it as an unprovoked attack from a maniac."  
  
"They would appear to be somewhat difficult to differentiate Professor."  
  
Doppler smiled tolerantly, "And that young man, is why I am the head of department and you are the student. Good day."  
  
If Greg had been confused before he was now completely bewildered; yet, instead of pondering the imponderable and because he was meeting Rilie for coffee, he merely thanked any deities present for the fact that his name wasn't Mozart, picked up his scattered books and headed in the direction of the cafeteria.

* * *

Ten minutes later Greg managed to wrap himself around a coffee. The bemused resignation of moments past had now assumed a different mien and as such he was too shell-shocked to consider that he was indulging in a potent stimulant to calm his shattered nerves; to all intents it could have been a rat-poison cocktail and he wouldn't have noticed. The Barista-on-Duty hadn't even commented when Greg had asked for the equivalent of a triple- double; if you can consider not commenting within the purview of asking if Greg was channelling his girlfriend. Then again, in the coffee lexicon according to Rilie, a triple-double was a beginner's drink.  
  
Despite Doppler's 'explanation', Greg was several stages beyond bemused but not quite in the realms of terrified. Certainly, he had, in the past, become used to being dressed down by Grissom, but then Grissom had never assaulted him. It was ironic, he thought, I fled the lab to get away from being treated like a piece of dirt and here I am getting beaten at university and respected at work. Greg was beginning to think that the universe had it in for him personally but was distracted from this line of thought, by the appearance of Rilie, who was wearing what a generous person might have termed a skirt - although the pedantic would have argued it was a belt - and a top that would have made a lycra body suit seem baggy and ill-fitting by comparison. Maybe the universe wasn't so completely against him after all. At odds with his girlfriend's appearance, however, was an expression that bore closer resemblance to snake poked with a stick than that of a thoroughly ravishing young woman.  
  
"Sanders, you okay?" Obviously she had heard about this morning's excitement.  
  
"Within a broad definition of the word term, yes." He smiled wryly, "yet I must admit that this morning's encounter wasn't exactly how I was planning to start my day."  
  
"I can imagine; you certainly woke up with a very broad smile."  
  
"I'm surprised I woke up at all after what you put me through last night."  
  
"I didn't see you complaining."  
  
"True. But it was also touch and go as to whether I'd walk again. I have to admit Rilie, your enthusiasm is even scarier than your sarcasm."  
  
Rilie blushed. "I need coffee," she declared in an obvious ploy to distract attention from herself. She turned to get up, only to have a coffee plonked in front of her before her backside had risen a millimetre from the chair. Greg smirked, his amusement at his girlfriend's predictability too obvious to hide successfully. "They know you too well, Andrews; they'd probably started making that as soon as you walked through the door."  
  
She shrugged, "Probably. So, what happened this morning? All I've heard is that Mueller tried to rip your throat out with her teeth."  
  
"That's pretty close. Actually, I'm pretty happy that the psychotic bitch wasn't holding a pencil or she would've tried to stake me like a vampire. Anyway, best I can figure is that she got upset because I hadn't given her my composition for that competition thingy she is continually raving about in class."  
  
"She must rate it quite highly then."  
  
"That's what Doppler said; can I add that I think you're both nuts."  
  
"Maybe so, but if Mueller is prepared to kill for your work then it must be pretty good; her usual reaction is arrogant indifference."  
  
"I can live with that. What I can't live with is being assaulted for not jumping through a hoop." Greg was confused, he was at a loss to understand why everyone in the music department, and his girlfriend, seemed to accept the fact that the composition professor was completely insane. Maybe it was a relativist conspiracy, where music departments determined acceptable standards of mental health differently across the country and that secretly, every music department had a secure ward where the composition teacher was returned after each day's classes.  
  
Rilie nodded sympathetically, "Sure, no argument, but it could have been worse."  
  
"What do you mean...worse?"  
  
"Well..." Rilie grinned evilly, "She might not have liked your composition..."  
  
"Yes I can see how that would far outweigh assault as an issue. Maybe I was overreacting, I mean the fact that my professor tried to strangle me in the hallway is only a minor anomaly!!!" Greg's voice rose as his shock-induced calm gave way to anger at Rilie's apparent lack of anything resembling empathy - or sympathy for that matter. "So, has Professor Mueller ever attacked you?"  
  
"No. Why?"  
  
"Obviously your compositions aren't any good then."  
  
Rilie flushed, firstly with embarrassment, then rage. "Shove it Sanders, where do you get off being such an arsehole?"  
  
"Simply following your lead."  
  
That brought her up short. Everything was going wrong. Sure, she had only been teasing, or so she thought, and then Greg had lashed out. For a moment she was lost, but then, when you're brought up in a culture of abuse you tend to take for granted what others not only won't tolerate but also can't understand. For Rilie, who was so far past feeling anything when it came to the slings and arrows cast upon her by her own family that she was unable to extend the empathy required by another; sadly, she didn't even recognise the need. Yet while she didn't understand why Greg was so upset, that he was upset made her wince, not shared pain but the pain of knowing that her actions were self-limiting and damaging. A rogue Star trek thought invaded her mind and she cursed her tar pit memory for the spear in the other's heart was indeed the spear in her own.  
  
Greg regarded Rilie curiously; it appeared that she had shut down, as her eyes grew distant and unfocused. He was, to his surprise, no longer angry, in fact, he wasn't entirely sure why he had been angry with her in the first place; maybe he expected Rilie not to have the failings of common mortals or to at least share his outrage, but he couldn't be certain. Admittedly, Rilie's lack of empathy had hurt and he had reacted without thinking - but then, feelings are, at best, capricious, and wont to act to their own dictates. He had not meant to hurt merely make a point and while there was many a slip 'twixt cup and lip there was no doubt in his recrimination. Only now, in the taut silence, did the inevitability of all conflict come home to roost. He had no wish to be at odds with this woman, his woman, even when her words struck to the heart; of course the nine million years he had spent under Sister Torquemada's regime had permanently imprinted on his psyche that he deserved everything he got and while there was obvious evidence contrary, he wanted someone, anyone, to be unquestionably on his side.  
  
It was Greg's hand that brought Rilie out of her reverie, that and the aroma of the triple espresso that happened to be in his hand and was being gently wafted back and forth under her nose.  
  
"You okay?" The tone held nothing but concern.  
  
Rilie ducked her head, embarrassed; she didn't like people seeing her like this. "Yeh, I guess so," she smiled tentatively, "and you?"  
  
"I'll live."  
  
Forget entropy, it is recrimination that is the most powerful negative force in the universe and both Greg and Rilie seemed to realise this; unspoken, the two shared a single thought; that they both felt particularly stupid and adolescent-like. Unsurprisingly, the likelihood of either giving voice to this was only slightly higher than Lucifer heading up the first united ice hockey squad from the nine planes of Hell; of course this was due mainly to there being only a handful of demons and devils that could actually skate.  
  
The pair moved on.  
  
"Dinner tonight?"  
  
"I can't, Grissom wants me at the lab."  
  
"More Shakespeare guy?"  
  
"No, the whole lab's backed up. One of the days shift's kids got chickenpox and in the spirit of collegiality he decided to share, so we, apparently meaning my stash of coffee and yours truly, are taking over some of the dayshift's cases. You could drop in if you want although I don't promise to be good company."  
  
"I wouldn't know the difference."  
  
"True." He agreed. "But come by anyway."  
  
"Sure, you want me to bring some dinner?"  
  
"Thanks mum."  
  
"No problem. Now, how about another coffee."

* * *

Grissom had just woken when he received the call and as such was a little slow on the uptake. For this reason it had taken him a little while to process that he did indeed know a Mrs Ecklie and yes, he did remember that her husband was in a coma.  
  
The operative word being 'was'.  
  
"He's awake?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"So he's regained consciousness?"  
  
"If you consider that a reasonable synonym for awake, then yes, Mister Grissom, he's awake."  
  
"So he's awake then?"  
  
"Really Grissom," the honorific 'Mister' now excluded, "I thought you to be an intelligent individual, I'm starting to have my doubts. Yes, Conrad is awake, and for some reason, known only to God I imagine, he wants to talk to you."  
  
"Me?"  
  
"No. I'm calling to tell you that Conrad wants to speak to someone else."  
  
"Now?"  
  
"Would you like me to make an appointment?" While he had, in the last few months, made some progress in interpreting the subtle undercurrents in people's communications he was far from adept, but not even Grissom missed the warning tone in the woman's voice.  
  
"No, no, I'll be right there, just let me have a coffee."  
  
"If you insist."  
  
Grissom was left staring at the receiver, which, if such a thing were possible, sarcastically informed him that the connection had been broken.  
  
In the hospital lobby, Mrs Ecklie stared at the telephone wondering why she hadn't ignored her husband's request. Really, she thought, if I wanted to torture him with imbeciles I could take him up to the psychiatry outpatients ward it would have saved the bother of having to get someone to come in specially.  
  
Twenty minutes later Grissom charged through the doors to the waiting room looking for all the world like an unmade bed albeit somewhat better dressed - his shirt wasn't covered with duckies and microscopes like his duvet.  
  
Mrs Ecklie was waiting for him, looking like a vengeful valkyrie who'd lost her steed and was, by Thor, going to make the bastard who stole it pay; fortunately for Grissom, he didn't appear to have arrived by winged beast and as such was spared the indignity of being smote with lightning; nevertheless, he approached the balefully glowering woman with caution.  
  
"Good evening," he offered tentatively.  
  
For a brief moment it looked likely that his colleague's wife was going to tell him precisely where to stuff his 'good evening'. However, she simply cocked a bemused eyebrow in his direction, nodded in response, and gestured for him to follow; Grissom, like a well-trained Labrador, followed in her wake wanting only for a freshly murdered duck to complete the image of subservient obedience.  
  
"You can't speak with Conrad for too long Grissom, he's still very tired, and quite weak. The only reason I, and the doctors, are letting you anywhere near him was because he insisted; it's possible that he's even more stubborn than I."  
  
What Mrs Ecklie had failed to mention was her husband's politely, and perfectly enunciated, threat to tear the I.V. out of his arm and go find Grissom himself if his team of attendants didn't accede to his softly worded request. While all in attendance agreed that the newly awakened man was the soul of courtesy there was a steely ring to his tone that clearly indicated the intrinsic lack of humour in his statement; his wife simply sighed in resignation, she was used to her husband demonstrating this level of brinkmanship on bridge nights and knew better than to argue; anyone brave enough to overcall her bid would easily chew up and spit out any doctor who had the temerity to object.  
  
Grissom could only nod, being a scientist he applied empirical laws to determine his imminent death if he disobeyed this clearly ironclad condition, he did, however, venture a question. "Do you know why Conrad, wishes to see me so urgently?"  
  
Mrs Ecklie's forbidding expression noticeably softened and a fond smile had a Moses-like effect as the worry lines on her forehead disappeared. "I gave up trying to figure out precisely what percolates in my husband's mind Mr Grissom. It could be that he simply wants to tell you that he won't be in for work this week. It's also just as likely that's going to tell you something else, heaven forefend that one such as I should attempt to delve into the inner thoughts of such a man."  
  
'I would have thought after so many years of marriage you would have an understanding of his thoughts."  
  
"That would be boring Mr Grissom, and boredom leads to entropy." She grinned impishly, "and entropy leads to anger and anger leads to hate and hate leads to the dark side; and we couldn't have that," she looked at her watch, "especially before dinner."  
  
Grissom was somewhat startled.  
  
"Come along Grissom, stop standing around like a pudding, Conrad is waiting."  
  
Grissom wondered if his visit with his erstwhile nemesis was going to be a continuation of this current 'torture by Ecklie' or if the lighter side of the man's personality, that everyone kept talking about, and very obviously absent from his wife, would surface; anything had to be better than being tormented by this...this...woman.  
  
"Well, here we are." Mrs Ecklie indicated a small room to Grissom's left; he had obviously been following on autopilot, lost in his thoughts of pushing the woman off a cliff or into the ravening maw of a large ravening thing; there weren't to many large ravening bugs so Grissom made do with a mental approximation.  
  
"Well, are you going to go in? Or stand here looking stupid?"  
  
"I'll go in," replied Grissom politely, if only to escape from you, he thought.  
  
Mrs Ecklie made a shooing motion and watched as the man entered her husband's hospital room. She grinned broadly as he disappeared, she hadn't had this much fun in ages; she would have to suitably reward Conrad for telling her which buttons to push.  
  
The last shafts of late afternoon sun filled the room shining down on the recumbent form of Conrad Ecklie and sheathing him in an opalescent fire to the point where he resembled the Renaissance ideal of an angel, the irony wasn't lost on Grissom whom had oft considered Ecklie his own personal devil. In repose, Ecklie seemed peaceful and certainly more at ease than the peripatetic frenzy that terrorized the day shift; Grissom was unnerved.  
  
"Are you planning to paint a picture or just stand there staring?" The words were softly spoken but they were unmistakably and indisputably Ecklie.  
  
Grissom started, before somewhat ruefully taking a seat in the chair by the bed. "Sorry Eck...I mean Conrad, I thought you were sleeping."  
  
"I've done that. I got bored."  
  
"What did you want to talk to me about?" Speaking in a soft voice, Grissom tried to make his words as soothing as possible; he wasn't very good at it.  
  
"I was in a coma Grissom, not a mental hospital, don't patronise me. Yes, I asked to speak to you, I surely didn't ask you here for the pleasure of your company."  
  
Grissom was fast losing his temper. "...And maybe you should have stayed in a coma, it distinctly improved your personality."  
  
"...At least I have a discernable personality " was the tart rejoinder.  
  
Ecklie looked like he was going to continue in the same vein but forcibly controlled himself, his sharply exhaled breath clear indication of his frustration. 'As entertaining as this is Grissom, I didn't ask you here to argue."  
  
His counterpart shrugged wryly, "Old habits...."  
  
"Indeed. Anyway, my wife told me you searched my study, did you find the journal?"  
  
"We did, and assuming I drew the same conclusions you did we're currently trying to persuade the medical association to unlock it's sphincter."  
  
"Best of luck with that."  
  
Grissom looked puzzled, "Isn't that what you were on your way to tell me? What you'd found in the journal?"  
  
"Initially, but then I thought of something else. I thought, like you, that the medical community would be less than helpful although, to be fair, they do have to protect their interests and the interests of their patients. However, I also had the thought that a lot of severely ill people have access to public monies in order to survive and this information is not protected by something like doctor/ patient privilege. Certainly, there is a degree of privacy around precisely who gets what but the general information is public record."  
  
"But didn't the investigation check all those records?"  
  
"No. Criminal records. Outpatient records. Even day-patient records but not everyone with a mental condition has been a guest of the State, or indeed, of a medical facility, so searching there wouldn't find anything."  
  
"But surely, Conrad, with a condition as serious as this person's appears to be there must have been some record of what might happen."  
  
"That's where doctor/ patient privilege comes in and thus as serious as it was, sorry is, we'd never know what was happening. You also have to remember that some mental and physical conditions can develop quite late in a person's life, like Type-II. Diabetes, and therefore there'd be no history of mental illness recorded in the public health system. Also, if you'd read the article, you'd know that Pax Romana wasn't always devoid of its active ingredients so it's entirely possibly that our friend wasn't un- medicated for quite some time."  
  
"That's true, I suppose."  
  
"Perhaps most importantly, however, is that Pax Romana, like many drugs proscribed for psychiatric conditions, has a very short half-life in the body but unlike the majority of drugs it doesn't work solely by treating the damaged or deteriorating areas of the brain but it also makes changes to the existing body chemistry to bring it into a kind of holistic balance. Now, from a continuing care perspective, this is excellent, however, from the perspective that we have an un-medicated maniac with altered brain chemistry running around, it's not so good."  
  
"You have a wonderful gift for understatement."  
  
"Thank you; it took me years to shake off the hyperbolic training I received in law school. Anyway, I'd suggest you run along and start checking some records; from what my wife told me it doesn't sound like you have a lot of time." Neither man had given voice to the thought that they might be wrong and that Pax Romana was just another wild goose chase, they needed something to hang their hopes on.  
  
Grissom nodded. "Thanks Conrad, I'll keep you posted."  
  
Ecklie only nodded in response turning his head towards the sunlight an indication that the meeting was over. Grissom began to leave and then stopped, he thought about how helpful Ecklie had just been and how what he had been told about Ecklie differed so much from his experience and preconceptions; maybe it was time for him to grow up. "Conrad, would you mind if I came a visited you again?"  
  
Although his face was turned away, there was no mistaking the slight smile in Conrad Ecklie's voice, "Not at all Grissom, not at all."

* * *

There had been five of them - with the emphasis on the had. Now, hung about the house, they resembled nothing so much as a somewhat macabre family portrait. The children decorated the hallway and, in a nod to kitsch art deco humour, had been positioned to look like a row of ceramic ducks in flight. Of course the blood, which coated the walls, floor and in some cases, ceiling, tended to detract from the aesthetics of the affair, although a connoisseur of Jackson Pollack could possibly have commented favourably about the splatter patterns giving testament to the brutal and banal realism of life's rich pageant.  
  
Aesthetics, however, were not the concern of the hardened police officers who were leaving the premises faster than they went in, usually with the intention of emptying their stomachs of assorted donuts coffees. The CSIs, however, weren't granted the pleasure of purgation instead they could only attempt to mount a façade of professionalism in the face of the horror before them. Even the ever-stoic Grissom was silent; his usual speech to the effect that a CSI must be professional at all times was left at the threshold. Battling Grissom's professionalism for non-entering rights were Brass' cynicism and Brown's laconic air as neither gave adequate testament to a scene that immediately sandblasted a psyche raw.  
  
The scene spoke of barrenness beyond humanity, beyond compassion, beyond understanding. If Grissom could have wept he would have, for a scientist's job, indeed their life, was to explain; but how could he explain this? Sometimes words, even the most explicit, stand defiant; for neither etymology nor definition provide context or grant understanding.  
  
"Well Grissom, where do we start?"  
  
The question returned Grissom to the present. Looking at the assembled faces of his staff he was struck by the possibility that for the first time in CSI history every one of the night shift looked like they were going to offer to search the perimeter. Immediately. For several hours. With the perimeter extending as far away from the house as possible.  
  
"Nick, Sara, you take the outside," both looked grateful. "Warrick, Cath, we'll take the lounge since that's where the parents are." No one felt the need to comment that that was where the slaughter had started; insane the killer might have been, but there was still method in his madness with the greater threat neutralised first.  
  
The horror that greeted the CSIs in the lounge was not as intense as the hallway; although it wasn't any less unpleasant. To the practised eye, it appeared as if the killer had rushed his work here, certainly the meticulous and fastidious attention to detail previously attributed to him was absent, also, furniture was cast about indicating that the killings had not proceeded in the orderly fashion of the past acts.  
  
_"Run children!" She screamed.  
  
"There is no escape. There is only death," intoned the figure who stood over her. The words were not cruel, nor did they hold the stereotypical malevolence; there was only resignation and a sense of finality.  
  
Further cries were silenced with the back of his hand and the woman crumpled to the floor next to the body of her husband. The children, bar one, had not moved, stricken by the sight of their mother falling to the floor; that they were too young to comprehend the scene before them, and the consequences implicit, only hindered any thought of escape.  
  
The eldest child, the one who had started to run, stopped at her mother's fall, torn between the fear of disobeying the parental command and wanting to run to comfort, and be comforted by, her mother.  
  
The child, cowed by indecision, stood transfixed as the figure approached, roughly hurling chairs aside in his desire to reach her...  
  
...And all she heard was the crying of her siblings...  
  
...Then, as his hand descended, only darkness...  
_  
"Maybe, this wasn't where the killings started Grissom," stated Catherine, "even a brief examination of the bodies tells me at least one of them was dead before they were attached to the wall, look at the extremities and the way the blood has settled."  
  
"Possibly Cath," argued Warrick. "But it's just as likely that the adults were killed first and left here while he chased the children down, the way the furniture is scattered would indicate that some sort of struggle occurred."  
  
"It's just as likely, if not more so, that he struggled with the parents. Look at the male, bruising about the neck, defensive marks on the wrists and arms and..." Catherine paused to gently roll up the shirt of the victim, "it would appear that he was kicked while on the ground," she indicated the bruising about the man's ribcage and abdomen, "and that possibly, he died there."  
  
"Any chance of epithelials?"  
  
"Too early to say, we'll have to wait until Robbins checks him out. I'd be surprised though; we haven't had so much as a fingerprint before now. I can't see our friend with the knife suddenly leaving us available hunks of skin. Of course" she conceded, "anything is possible." Catherine looked around as if trying to place someone or something that was, to her mind, missing "Do we have an ETA on the coroner?"  
  
Warrick went outside to check and returned a moment later with the news that David had been held up in traffic and wouldn't be there for another half hour. Grissom shrugged inured to the fates playing with his crime scenes. "Bag his hands Warrick" he said, indicating the male victim, "I don't want to lose anything when we take him down."  
  
Moving the focus of his attention Grissom indicated the woman "What about her?"  
  
"A cursory examination indicates a single blow to the head although I would guess, judging by the way that her remaining blood has pooled in her extremities, that she died on the wall."  
  
"Remaining blood?"  
  
"Well, per custom, the throats have been slashed, however, the volume of blood splatter from the severing of the carotid artery would tend to indicate that only one victim was alive when cut and to my mind that would support my belief that the husband died beforehand."  
  
"But his throat was cut?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"That would indicate that whatever ritual this guy's following still went ahead wouldn't it Grissom?"  
  
"I guess. I'm not a forensic psychologist and I'd really rather not try and rummage around in this guy's skull, I'll leave that to the experts."  
  
_The man was not meant to have died as he did but for some reason he had not succumbed to the toxin and had attacked the intruder; his need to protect his family overriding his instinct for self-preservation.  
  
The response was brutal and merciless.  
  
While the woman and children watched he systematically beat the man stopping only when the pathetic whimpering sounds emanating from beneath his feet had ceased.  
  
The man was heavy, his weight a burden as he was affixed, first one hand then the other, to the wall. After assuring himself that the man would not fall from his place of honour, he tuned to the woman. She had not stirred from her position at his feet. He initially feared her dead but the caress of her pallid breath on his skin as he lifted her high reassured him.  
  
She resembled a broken Madonna.  
_  
_Black eyes staring sightlessly past him.  
  
He waited, for only in the moment of her return to consciousness could she be taken.  
  
As the spark of life returned to her eyes and a whispered "my children" crawled past broken lips did the blade slice downward...  
  
...and the blood flowed.  
_  
"You finished photographing the area yet Warrick?"  
  
"Just about. I still need to get a few close-ups of the victims. Cath, you finished with the blood?"  
  
"Yup," she nodded, "Not much to go on really. Spray pattern indicates a right to left cut and that's about it." She paused for a second before adding with gallows intent, "Did I mention how well shagpile absorbs blood?"  
  
"No, but thanks for the thought."  
  
"We aim to please," she informed brightly.  
  
Grissom silently watched the pair banter knowing that their words were little more than a poorly disguised coping mechanism. "We ready to move onto the children?" The question was more about state of mind than professional preparedness and Grissom knew he'd been right to ask as both Warrick and Catherine visibly drew a calming breath before indicating their assent. Professionalism was one thing but there was something different about child victims, and it took a toll of every person who worked in the area of criminal justice. Maybe it was the innocence, or the sense of waste, but it always hit and it always hit hard; especially those with children of their own.  
  
"You alright Cath?"  
  
Grissom heard Warrick's quiet comment. "You can go and join Nick and Sara outside if you'd like Catherine.  
  
Outraged fire flashed in the redhead's eyes before she acknowledged Grissom's question with a shrug "I'll be fine. If the bastard that did this was around then I'd probably try to rip his throat out with my teeth, but for the moment I'm..." she looked like she was going to throw up "...OK." The trio had re-entered the hallway and the bodies of the three children hung in visceral splendour before them.  
  
"You sure?"  
  
"Just give me a moment Gil."  
  
"Fine." He turned to Warrick, "Start taking pictures, Warrick, I'll see if I can find anything like a message, he didn't leave anything on the parents so if he's running true to form there should be something on one of the kids."  
  
"He's killed five this time Griss, somehow I think he threw the form book out the window. I mean, escalation is one thing, but this? I'd have preferred it if he'd just left a courtesy card."  
  
"There's not a whole lot of courtesy going on here Warrick." This came from Catherine, who while still pale, appeared composed, "Let's get this over with shall we?"  
  
_"Masters, please, not the children." It was possibly the one thing that could rouse his soul from it catatonia.  
  
"You disobeyed us once and let a child live, this time our will be done."  
  
The oldest child was, at best, nine; a pretty child with straw blond hair and an elfin face, she lay where she had fallen earlier beneath the oppression of his hand, but had roused to the point where she could frame, with pointed innocence, a question that had no answer in a world where sanity was master here sanity held no sway.  
  
"Why did you hurt my mummy?"  
  
"Your mother is to do with as I will it. She belongs to me, child, as do you." The eyes told a tale different from that spoken. They bespoke horror and a helplessness that even a scared child could see.  
  
"Why are you sad, mister? Did my mummy make you sad?"  
  
He silenced her with a heavy fist. "You need to learn your place." A pause, then a brutal, malicious smile, "and I will teach it to you."  
  
Reaching down he roughly grasped the child about the throat, her weight, compared to that of her parents, nothing. Raising the child high he shifted his grip to the other hand and from the child's throat to her hair. She was beautiful in her unconscious state, a state forever to be preserved as he drove forward with his free hand and the spike, which he held there pinned_ _the child to the wall.  
  
She looked much like a butterfly, pinioned for eternity in death to preserve a fragile beauty, yet the splintered wreck that had been her throat spoke of something far removed.  
  
Satisfied, he turned his gaze to the younger children that lay at her feet_.  
  
It wasn't pretty. But it was effective. Certainly those were the only thoughts that crossed Grissom's mind as he supervised the careful examination of the children's bodies in the hallway. Actually, they were the only thoughts that Grissom allowed to cross his mind, he didn't want to think of anything else; anything, that is, that would allow him to absorb the horror that now resided here.  
  
"What've we got guys?"  
  
"I'm assuming you mean other than three kids pinned to the wall by their throats?"  
  
"Well that's kind of obvious, Catherine," pointed out Warrick, "I'm assuming Gris means is there anything different."  
  
"You mean you see this sort of thing on a regular basis?"  
  
"Not lately. But I haven't had time to keep up with my sacrifices. I just drop a dollar or two in the offertory on the way home, but that's it. How about you?"  
  
"Well Lindsey had a project for school..."  
  
Grissom rolled his eyes, refusing to rise to the bait his senior staff were rolling out for him. "Would you two just answer the question without all the exciting editorialising."  
  
"Well the throats weren't slashed, although the spike punctured enough arteries and veins to account for the squelching carpet. The oldest child has some bruising about the throat and a mark on the face but otherwise all three victims appear to have been handled quite gently. Strange as it sounds, Grissom, I don't think he wanted to do this."  
  
_"No masters, not the children."_  
  
"Well he failed miserably then."  
  
_"Silence. Exercise our will."_  
  
"He's completely lost control."  
  
_"For our glory my brethren, for our glory."_  
  
"Not entirely Grissom, look." Warrick stepped to the left of the eldest child gently lifting and drawing her body with him. Behind her, in the blood that had run down the wall was a clear impression of a hand and scrawled below were two words, _'I'm sorry'. _


	23. Blood, but no puddings in evidence

_It's that time again ladies and gentlemen, where proof that iscariot has indeed gotten of his backside and been writing is produced. Thank you for your patience. It's funny, this chapter took me six weeks to start, in part because of the short piece on Brass that I wrote, but once it got going it flowed quite nicely._

_To the shock of many assuming there's actually a 'many' reading this this chapter actually has some story development instead of my usual, feeble attempts to see how many cultural references I can jam into a chapter or to try and convince myself that I am humorous._

_As always, thanks to my loyal betas, who despite having the audacity to have lives of their own, produced their usual sterling work in stopping my megalomania run completely rampant._

_My gripe this week is fanfiction authors who write popular stories but don't review other people's work...bastards._

_Anyway, I hope you enjoy this chapter and if you feel so inclined, please review._

_

* * *

_

__

_"Do you know who you are talking to, with your confounded tomfooleries?"_

_"I never talk tomfooleries," said the other, "without first knowing my audience"_

_**GK Chesterton**._ 'The Painful Fall of a Great Reputation' from _The_ _Club of Queer Trades_

* * *

"Good evening, this is Desiderata Rampage, coming to you live from the scene of yet another chapter in the campaign of murder most foul; where the Shakespeare Killer, Las Vegas' most notorious criminal, has once again struck into the heart of suburbia, shattering the innocence of yet another neighbourhood. Early reports state that there are ten victims this time, and in an apparent Satanic ritual, the killer quoted sections from the Necronomicon, Paradise Lost, Dante's Divine Comedy and the sports pages of the National Enquirer. We are unable at this point to bring you the names of the victims, but we will be speaking to neighbours of the deceased who saw the events happen."

The blonde, Rampage, was about to continue, after strategically fluffing her already impressively mane of hair to even greater heights, when her cameraman pointed to a tired figure emerging from the house. Sighting her prey, and with the instincts of a ravenous eagle in pursuit of a doomed water buffalo, set forth in full flounce.

"Captain Brass? Captain Brass!"

Brass, with an expression reminiscent of a piece of steak at a carnivores convention looked like he was considering running back into the house and hiding, or, failing that, shooting the reporter. He sighed resignedly – because he knew it would be he that would be gunned down if shot her. Giving up any thoughts of escape he prepared to answer with a firm 'No Comment' whatever inanity spewed forth from the collagen enhanced lips.

"Captain Brass, is it true there are ten victims?"

"No comm...How many did you say?"

"Ten."

Brass smiled inwardly, for as the carnivores circled, the piece of steak unveiled the machine gun it had hidden.

"Oh yes, at least."

"This then would be the worst act perpetrated by the Shakespeare Killer."

"Who said it was the Shakespeare Killer?"

"The witness."

A witness? Brass' mind filed that piece of information away for further investigation, although considering the source; he wasn't prepared to attest to its probable veracity.

"And how does this 'witness'," he lightly emphasized the word, "know that this was the work of the Shakespeare Killer?"

"I can't say, Captain."

"Perhaps your witness is the Shakespeare Killer?"

"I consider that highly unlikely."

"Why? Do you know who the Shakespeare Killer is?"

"No."

"Then how do you know that the witness is not the person in question?"

"Because they...hold on, I'm asking you the questions."

"No. You were."

"I was?"

"Yes, you were; but I'm leaving now."

"Leaving? You can't leave."

"...and why would it be that I can't leave?"

"Because I'm...." The reporter gave up, surrendering in acknowledgement of being completely outmanoeuvred by the wily detective. "You can leave Captain."

"How kind," murmured Brass, who permitted himself a small smile for he knew it would be the only victory he would have that evening. He surveyed the scene surrounding the house: police cars warred with news vans for parking, while reporters jostled local residents as they sheltered behind the lines the police had erected in a futile attempt to protect the crime scene, he half expected hotdog and t-shirt vendors to make an appearance hawking their wares with the subtlety only the truly capitalistic could manage. It was times like these, when Brass was forced to watch the venal interplay of human curiosity and greed, that he wondered whether people – although he used the nomenclature advisedly – such as the maniac, whose work decorated the inside of the house, had the right idea and that the larger percentage of the population was useful for little more that wholesale butchery. Maybe they could replace cows, he mused, for at the very least cows performed some useful social functions.

"Jim?"

The ever-tightening spiral of the man's dark thoughts were interrupted, which, he would silently admit, was probably a good thing. "What is it Gil?' He hadn't needed to turn to know who had addressed him.

"We're almost done in there." The slight emphasis Grissom placed upon the adverb caused Brass to regard his colleague with something approaching wariness.

"What do you mean, 'almost'?"

Grissom sighed. "We're pretty much wading in blood, I shudder to think how much trace evidence has been tracked backwards, forwards or otherwise." He continued before Brass could interrupt. "It doesn't help that the people securing the scene made complete mess of things – incidentally, I'll need their shoes – but all things considered, and short of wrapping the entire house in a sheet of plastic, they didn't have a huge range of options."

"I'll see what I can do about getting you a large sheet of plastic."

The answering grin was acerbic albeit tinged with resignation; "That's not going to help anyone this time, Jim." Grissom's eyes were haunted, "I've seen a lot, but this," he gestured towards the house, "this is something else entirely."

The detective, for, titles notwithstanding, that's what Brass would always be, nodded in understanding. "How're the guys holding up?"

"Catherine's wavering between homicidal rage and shock and Warrick? Well Warrick's Warrick. Sara and Nick are doing the perimeter check and haven't been inside yet, but as there's kids involved it might be the wiser course to keep Nick outside, you know how he gets."

Brass' answering shrug indicated his tacit agreement, as it was well known that exposing the young Texan CSI to circumstances involving murdered children was akin to playing with a flamethrower in a fuel tank; it wasn't that Nick didn't perform his job professionally and to the utmost of his abilities in such situations it was more that he took such incidents personally and his investigation became a wrath-fuelled crusade with little thought given to consequence; and frankly, the two men privately admitted to themselves, the last thing this investigation needed was to be turned into a witch hunt. Brass did admit privately, however, that if they ever caught the son-of-a-bitch responsible for this, and the other killings, he was entirely supportive of going medieval on the bastard and toasting his unmentionables on an oversized bonfire.

"Fine. I guess." It wasn't that Brass had any real misgivings as to how the investigation was handled being as how the staff involved were Grissom's responsibility. He was, however, resigned to the inevitable conversation with his political masters involving which would inevitably involve selections from his compendium of bureaucratic doublespeak such as 'all available resources' and 'a comprehensive investigation', which, in the grand scheme of things, didn't mean squat other than being something to feed the electorate in order to keep the mayor in office. "Anyway, what have you got so far?"

"No pressure, Jim? We've only been in there for..." Grissom paused to look at his watch, "three, no, four hours."

"Time flies when you're having fun..."

"...Thanks Jim..."

"...Or so I'm told..."

"That's a sad commentary on your existence; surely the sisters at St Maudlins provide you with all the excitement you could ever want."

"If you call exploding Mother Superiors fun, then yes..."

"You mean they're not?"

"Fun?"

"Exploding" smirked Grissom, purposely misinterpreting his colleague.

"I'm going to send you home in a box" Retorted Brass with the icy control of a saint on anti-psychotics. "Now, did you plan on answering the question or just stand there and take the piss?"

"Do I get a choice?"

"No."

"In that case I'll take..."

"Grissom...." Brass' tone was menacing, although he was well aware that Grissom was, in his own peculiar way, simply relieving stress."

The other man grinned, or at least he tried to, summoning as much humour from the situation as he could, before responding. "You've seen it in there Jim, it's a mess. While I have no doubt as to the identity of the perpetrator, the crime scene would indicate something else is going on."

"Like what?"

"Precisely? I couldn't tell you. Personally, I think that whomever is responsible for this" he indicated the house "and all the other killings, is losing it. Badly."

"...and you don't think that his previous killings would indicate some measure, however small, of mental-unhingedness?"

"Unhingedness isn't a word Brass."

"It is now. Anyhow, you were telling me...."

"...About why I think our 'friend with the knives' is coming apart at the seams? Firstly, I would have to point to the lack of order. As you're fully aware, the other crime scenes were tidy, excepting of course the blood splatter, with nothing disturbed; this scene had furniture scattered all about the room where two of the murders took place. Secondly, this time we've got some degree of trace evidence, specifically, bloody footprints and a potential palm print and that's with only a cursory search conducted. It's tricky though Jim, there's so much blood in there that it's difficult to tell what's what, particularly as you squelch between the hallway and the lounge." Grissom sighed, "my guess is that we're going to have to take the whole damn carpet with us if only to avoid missing something; I may just need that plastic sheet you were offering me after all."

Both men paused in their conversation as they saw the vulture-like presence of the reporter to whom Brass had spoken to earlier heading their way. It was Brass who responded first, beating a strategic retreat towards his car.

"I'll see you later Gil."

"Dr Grissom? Dr Grissom!" The harpy-like screech cut the air and Grissom couldn't help wondering to himself where Agatha Babylon was when he needed her.

* * *

**Press Conference Later That Evening.**

_In attendance: His Worship, The Mayor, Waldorf Astoria; Chief of Police, Corbin Calliope._Calliope peered through the door into the auditorium where the members of the press thronged in a seamlessly regenerating series of whorls and eddies. A less kind person would have suggested that a more appropriate metaphor was the resemblance of the press to a school of piranha closing in on a particularly ill-conceived bovine river crossing, but Corbin was doing his damnedest to spare Astoria from hearing such things, for the Mayor was already pale enough to out-Casper the ghost and had been forced to attend the hastily arranged press conference by reminding him that his only other option for the evening was attending a charity bridge evening with his wife and Mother-in-law.The mayor had chosen the press conference but nevertheless looked like a man on his way out to face a firing squad.

"It's bad, isn't it Corbin?"

"Five people being butchered is generally considered so."

"No, that's not what I meant, I mean, politically."

"You're worried about your career? Now? A little bit of perspective would probably wouldn't hurt Waldorf."

The Mayor grimaced. He pouted. Then he grimaced again. It didn't matter, however, Corbin was still right; sort of. "Sure, my career. But, let's face it, no matter what I say or do, I'm toast." He began to pace back-and-forth his hands waving in the unmistakeable oratorical gestures of a demagogue, "The thing is that no matter what we decide to do, be it give the police more powers or undermine doctor-patient privilege, or whatever," he threw his hands in the air in a dramatic caesura, "we're going to not only majorly piss someone off ..."

"When haven't you?..."

The mayor ignored the interruption ... "but we're going to leave whichever poor bastard comes into office behind us with one hell of an unholy mess to try and fix. Face it Corbin, if we try and increase the powers of the police, and nail the medical establishment to the wall, every bleeding-heart liberal and left-wing ass-hat will converge on Las Vegas like locusts on a cornfield. If we don't bolster the police every in-bred red-neck and their gun-toting cousin will swap their Tupperware parties for vigilante 'love-ins;' I think I'll move to Nepal, I'm sure they don't have these problems."

"Assassinations, pro-democracy riots, anti-democracy riots and corruption if I remember correctly; not a good time to be a member of their royal family"

"You're joking."

"Nope. At least I don't think so."

"Suddenly this press conference doesn't seem so bad, lets go."

The pair entered exited the small room and emerged into the glare of a hundred lights and flashing bulbs, where a chorus of voices raised as one to independently scream incoherent questions at the pair as they took a seat at the table facing the auditorium. The aide, who had been prepping the media prior to their entrance, spoke over the ongoing ruckus.

"Ladies and gentlemen, if you'll take your seats, and attempt to act with some small measure of decorum, we'll begin. Please remember to identify yourself and your media affiliation when asking your question." Then, prepared for the worst, the aide rolled his eyes, shrugged at the seated pair and beat a hasty retreat.

"Not very brave is he?" came the _sotto voce _comment from Calliope.

"Can you blame him?"

"Well...no..."

"Mister Mayor!" And it was on. "Mr Mayor, Otto Arotikfixiation, Vegas Latin Tribune; why does it appear that City Hall still appears unwilling to intervene in the current crisis?"

Calliope glanced sideways at the mayor with a sly smile on his face a slightly raised eyebrow the only indication that he would take this question; Astoria, knowing his Chief of Police, set his stopwatch and made himself comfortable.

"Which current crisis are you referring to, Otto?" Calliope would see his tongue hung, drawn and quartered before he tried to pronounce that last name.

"The Shakespeare Killer of course."

The chief nodded sagely, "Ah yes, and precisely what would this 'crisis intervention' consist of?"

The reporter appeared somewhat nonplussed by this somewhat staid reply and he stopped and took a moment to reassure himself of his point of view before pressing on.

"I would expect you to intervene to stop the killings."

"...And precisely how am I, or more correctly, are we..." his gesture took in the mayor... "supposed to achieve this cessation? It's not like we keep this gentleman on retainer."

"But...but...that's not what I..."

"I suppose we could take out an advertisement in the paper, although under current budgetary constraints I'm not sure such an expense could be justified and I'm not entirely sure that a plea to the gentleman's better nature would have any ameliorative result."

"But you... I mean... City Hall appears to be prevaricating in its attempts to even capture this person."

Corbin sighed; sometimes the press were like little children, all about instant gratification and no concept of anything else except the fulfilling of that want. "Might I remind you that the perpetrator of these acts is not a butterfly and as such the chances of our running down the street and capturing them in a net is, sadly, highly improbable. However, if you know where this person is, or, better yet, where they will commit their next act, maybe we can catch them in the act and save ourselves the burden of all that pesky procedural stuff like evidence and proof..."

Arotikfixiation gave up and slumped back into his chair.

"How long?" Calliope, with ventriloquist-like subtlety, asked the mayor,

Astoria surreptitiously glanced at his stopwatch, "One minute fifty."

"Damn! I'm losing my touch."

"Getting old Corbin, getting old." Astoria refocused on the crowd; maybe the next question wouldn't be so stupid. "Next question please."

"Fallow Pastures, SPYN TV. Gentlemen, assuming that you can confirm current suspicions as to the perpetrator of this act, is there any new information that you can release, which would best serve the public interest?"

Again, the mayor and the chief shared a look, mentally tossing up who was to answer the politely expressed, and reasonably framed question. Although definitively non-verbal, the two men shared an intense conversation that consisted of a brief argument over how much should be revealed and the degree of explicitness that was appropriate within that ambit; eventually, the Mayor stood.

"Ms Pastures, don't you normally cover gardening?" The mayor remembered her from the opening of the annual flower show.

The young woman grinned in response, "Yes Mr Mayor, however, our regular crime correspondent in being held uptown for multiple unpaid traffic violations and we couldn't get a lawyer to him in time. As I was in the area covering the mysterious disappearance of a dentist, apparently attributed to the actions of a rather large, carnivorous plant, the boss told me to take this one; looks like, if you'll excuse the pun, I'm branching out."

Astoria smiled slightly, for despite all rumours to the contrary, he liked intelligent people, except of course when they were too intelligent for their own good; like that pesky Babylon woman. "To answer your question, Ms Pastures; at this stage we are treating the latest killings as if they are the work of the so-named, Shakespeare Killer. However, as there are some variations from what is considered that person's standard methodology, the police have asked that only certain information be released until such time as they are able to confirm certain points of difference against the existing body of knowledge concerning said suspect. I understand that you all have been given fact sheets insofar as information could be made available; that being said, we can confirm that, for perhaps the first time in the series of killings that have taken place in the Las Vegas Metropolitan area, that a degree of physical trace evidence has been recovered, however, as of this time the precise nature of that evidence can not be divulged."

As Pastures resumed her seat, the remaining reporters seemed unsure as to whether to continue asking questions; the information sheet handed out before the press conference answered the most basic of questions, and the mayor's response to the aforementioned Pastures, had pretty much concluded any thought of trying to pry specific case information out of the duo. Yes, the reporters wanted answers, but they were not prepared to risk panicking the entirety of Las Vegas simply for being the one to acquire information that not even the deepest and darkest of secret sources would confirm. For their part, Astoria and Calliope looked satisfied, they had managed to escape yet another potentially tricky press conference without being put to the sword.

Of course, whoever said that fate didn't have a wonderful sense of timing – and a particularly nasty sense of humour - was obviously extremely stupid, or dreaming.

"Mr Mayor," a voice rang out from the back of the room "can you tell us whether there has been any progress in regard to attempts to challenge the medical profession's stance on patient client privilege, which have arisen, I might add, as a result of the murders currently under investigation."

"Identify yourself!" Snapped the voice of the petty functionary who was presiding over the meeting's equivalent of dotting Is and crossing Ts.

"Don't bother Anton," Astoria interrupted wearily, "good evening Ms Babylon, how delightful that you could join us, where did the mother ship drop you off?"

"Nice to see you Waldorf, shall I call your wife and tell her you still have time to meet her for bridge?"

The mayor visibly shuddered, "No no, that's fine, I'll stay here and answer your question; in detail, over dinner if necessary."

"Answering the question will suffice."

"No."

"No, you won't answer my question?"

"No, the answer to your question is no."

"What happened to the detail?"

"Errrr that was the detail. Put more explicitly, and using small words so you understand, we are not touching the medical profession with any legal documentation, any legal queries, any subtle pressure from on high or, for that matter, a barge pole – of any length."

"Do you have a reason or is this a shining example of bureaucratic arbitrariness?"

"Does the fact that we don't have a legal leg to stand on ring any bells? Don't misunderstand me, Ms Babylon; I would wholeheartedly support any practitioner who, moved no doubt by the stirrings of their conscience, came forward with important information, to that end I have approached our representatives to the senate and have had a meeting with our chief justices in order to draft a bill, which would protect those professionals, who come forward in cases where the public interest is at odds with patient client privilege, from being ruined professionally or financially."

Babylon looked thoughtfully at the ornate ceiling for a moment before returning her gaze to the mayor, "So what you're suggesting is that doctors who want to spill the beans on a patient can do an end run around the privacy laws?"

"Not at all. First of all, the practitioner must show that their actions are in the public good. Secondly, they must demonstrate that their actions in no way benefit themselves personally or professionally; the proposed bill recommends that any doctor seeking to utilise the relevant statutes is subjected to a series of audits in order to satisfy the sections relating to personal gain."

"Don't you feel, however, that some people will attempt to abuse this proposed law change?"

"Certainly. It's human nature. That's why I have asked to chief justices to draft the proposal very narrowly in order for its area of effect to be tightly and explicitly defined. Plain and simple Ms Babylon, neither I, nor any member of my administration is prepared to legally attack doctor patient privilege, however, we are prepared to attempt to provide some measure of protection to those members of the medical profession who feel that their duty to society outweighs their duty to their patient. Is that all?" The question was addressed not only to Agatha Babylon, but the room at large.

The resounding silence appeared to indicate assent, or complete shock, in either case the mayor took it as his cue to beat a hasty retreat and with Calliope at his heels he left the auditorium.

As the mayor and Calliope entered the anteroom, Astoria's progress was abruptly halted by a sharp jolt to the ribs, "And when pray, did you plan on telling me about this little proposal of yours?"

Astoria attempted to look innocent, "You mean I didn't?"

"No."

"Oops."

"Astoria..." emerged from Calliope's lips in a menacing growl, however, and somewhat surprisingly, the mayor didn't flinch, he simply shrugged and moved towards the executive drinks cabinet.

"Take a seat old boy and I'll tell you about it; would you like a drink?"

Back in the auditorium a lone, pensive figure stood, a contemplative look decorating her attractive brow, "Who would have thought," she murmured, "the mayor's grown a spine."

* * *

**Greg's Lab: The Following Evening.**

The life of a lab tech was obviously one filled with excitement thought Greg as he examined yet another square of carpet for identifiable blood samples. So far, nothing of any startling relevance had come to light, other than that the blood belonged to the people that had had the misfortune to be pinned to the walls of their house, which in the grand scheme of things wasn't hugely surprising.

In fact, the entirety of the trace evidence taken from the house was turning out to be one Moby-Dick sized red herring, it was as if the killer, in their own spectacularly random way, had decided to entice the investigation with a whole lot of hope and little else; maybe, Greg shrugged, the killer felt sorry for the police and it was that which the hastily written script found behind the child's body referred to, and not an apology for the killings themselves.

There wasn't, of course, a whole lot Greg could do about the situation, evidence didn't, as Grissom was wont to state, appear out of thin air and it was also something that wasn't spontaneously created through the vigorous rubbing of a lamp; thus he was left with the option of continuing to process the seemingly interminable number of carpet fibres that clogged his lab, or he could go and bug people.

Five minutes later he was standing outside Grissom's office.

The older man appeared to be engrossed with something on his computer, yet without looking up he invited Greg in and told him to sit down.

"Now," he said, eventually looking up, "how can I help you Greg?"

"I don't think you can Grissom, help that is. I just needed a break; and as soon as I get home I'm going to rip up my carpet and replace it with wood panelling; or maybe plastic, I can't tell you how sick I am of carpet. I've spent two nights looking at this carpet; did you really need to bring all of it with you?"

"Can I take that you haven't found anything then."

"How'd you guess?"

"You could attribute it to my astounding powers of observation."

"Why would I want to do that?"

"Because I'm your boss."

"Now that I think about it Grissom, you do indeed have astounding powers of observation."

"See, told you. Now, seriously, have you been able to find anything..."

"...Other than traces of the five victims? No."

Grissom grimaced, "This isn't good. It seems like every lead we thought we had from this latest scene is backfiring on us. You know about the handprint on the wall? It came back as belonging to the father. Don't," he added, forestalling the question he knew was bound to come, "we don't know how he did it, especially since the father's hand was apparently free of blood, even under luminol. Our best guess though, is that he somehow carried the father out into the hall and pressed his hand into the wall, post-mortem not only to his own death but also to that of the children. The problem of course is that there is no sign of the children's blood on his, the fathers, clothes or his skin; nor is there any sign of his being washed."

Greg looked thoughtful for a moment especially, considering what Grissom had told him; it looked better than looking stupid, "I take it the liver temps and all that stuff were too close together to give us a specific order of death?" Grissom nodded silently in affirmation. "...And, correct me if I'm wrong, but the father was the only one who wasn't killed by having his throat slashed?" Again, Grissom nodded, adding that the father had been beaten to death. "From a logical standpoint it would make sense that our killer removed the opponent with the greatest potential to stymie his plans, but why..."

"...Greg, would you get to the point, we, being myself, Brass, every CSI within a ten mile radius have already covered this..."

His agitation apparent at the interruption, Greg began to pace "No, Grissom, let me finish; ...but why" he continued, resuming from the point at which he had been interrupted, indulging himself in a Holmesian moment of deductive ecstasy, "would he wash the hand of the father after using his print? All the other victims were covered in blood, being killed on the wall...Grissom?"

"Yes Greg" was the tired response.

"Did has the M.E. make any definitive statement as to how long the father was dead before having his throat slashed post mortem?"

"No."

"Do you think she'd be able to provide an estimate of how long he'd have to be dead in order for the blood not to...to..." Greg paused looking for the right word "...um spurt everywhere" he glanced apologetically at Grissom, "after his throat was cut?"

"She probably could, but I can answer that for you too. The simple answer is not long; simply because arterial blood splatter is predicated on the sudden release of blood pressure through the severed artery, one a person is dead then they don't really have the requisite blood pressure to produce any respectable amount of spray. A fairly hearty dribble, perhaps, dependant on the body's position at the time of having their artery severed, but since our dearly-departed victim was not only lying on the ground before being hung up, but was cut whilst hanging I would have to say there would be little to no blood splatter at all." Grissom paused in his recitation, "Can I ask why you want to know this Greg?"

"Because it makes no sense for the killer to clean the victim's hands of their own blood. With the other victims at this scene, and in all the other murder sites, he made no effort to clean the victims of their blood, so why now? To me that would indicate that there was another reason for cleaning the victim's hand and that would be because..."

"...The blood on their hand was not their own" concluded Grissom who had begun to catch the direction of Greg's line of thought.

"...And if we logically follow on from that, then whose blood is most likely to warrant being cleaned off the victim's hand after being used to make an imprint on the wall?"

Grissom sighed almost reverently, "Our killer."

"In which case," surmised Greg, "my question would be whether anyone has performed any analysis on the actual blood in which the hand impression was found."

"No," was the strangled response "we were too busy concentrating on the finger and palm prints..."

"Would you like me to do that then Grissom...Grissom, come back Grissom, I haven't finished making you feel your world's been reordered by those Queer Eye people."

Grissom wasn't listening. Grissom wasn't even present; for as soon as Greg hammered the final logical nail into his analytical coffin he was off and running. Well, sort of running, inasmuch as your prototypical middle-aged, slightly overweight and non-exercising professional geek ever runs; alright, he was off and un-cordinatedly shambling towards the fingerprint lab hoping, that just for once, the gods of 'hindering criminal investigations at the really important bit' had decided to leave his evidence alone.

Maybe, just for once, the fates decided to give Gil Grissom a break.

Maybe, just for once, the bureaucratic red-tape demon had decided to let things be.

Or maybe, just maybe, someone other than Grissom wasn't so frazzled as to forget how to use the telephone and call ahead. Fortunately, for Grissom, other people had retained some small degree of professional _sang froid_, and as the harried, and clearly frustrated, man charged into the print lab he was brought up short by a beatifically smiling tech, who held up one hand in a manner similar to a policeman directing traffic.

Grissom stumbled to a halt. "Whaaaa....?"

"It's on the table."

"...?!!"

"Your piece of wall."

"We bought the whole wall?"

"Nope, just the bit with the handprint on it."

"Why?"

"You're asking me? I'm just a lowly fingerprint technician, who'm I to question if them that gathers the evidence bring me a piece of wall; I'm checking for fingerprints not critiquing how the evidence arrives."

"Are you finished with it?"

"Well I wasn't planning on framing it, if that's what you meant."

"Can I take it?"

The tech shrugged, "Sure. Knock yourself out."

Grissom carefully picked up the piece of wall and backed away from the strange fingerprint tech. "Thank you" he said, before turning and fleeing back from whence he had come."

The tech poked her head out the door to make sure he had gone before ducking back inside and picking up the phone.

"Greg?...Yep, he's been and gone....Heh, you were right, he was nearly out of his head with worry that the evidence may have disappeared... Back to you I guess...Nah, no problem, haven't had that much fun in ages...and yes, you owe me coffee...no, the good stuff, not that crap in the break room pretending to be coffee...What?...He's coming down the corridor?...'K I'll catch you later."

* * *

**Back in Greg's Lab:**

In the time it had taken Grissom to hurtle (sort of) to the print lab and acquire his piece of wall, Greg had sauntered back to his lair in preparation for his boss' return. He hadn't planned to play the bastard child of Hercule Poirot and Miss Marple, the image alone, of those two engaged in any sort of mating ritual, being enough to make him shudder, but the issues that Grissom had raised had, with the inevitability of a black hole chasing down a sloth, drawn him to an inescapable series of conclusions that he felt he couldn't ignore. Perhaps, in the past, where he felt his insight would have been ridiculed or ignored, he might have kept things to himself, but with the redrawing of his relationship with Grissom, and, to a lesser extent the others, he felt more confident in putting his ideas into the ether without a retaliatory lightning strike being the result.

He had just settled himself comfortably, after firing up the jug to prepare some coffee, when the phone buzzed; probably Zippy, in the print lab calling to tell him Grissom was on his way. Proven correct, he took the time, and with only the slightest hesitation, to offer her some of his special coffee stash in thanks, before he busied himself preparing for Grissom's arrival. He had no concerns as to being able to draw a DNA sample from the blood on the piece of wall, certainly, from an evidentiary perspective he wasn't concerned that Zippy had tainted his sample, if anything, she was even more fastidious around evidence than Grissom and Greg combined. Greg smiled as he worked, thinking back to when Zippy had started and how harassed Brass had looked as he passed Greg in the corridor and wanted to know why the department had hired his sister. Greg, mystified by this comment, had wandered around the building until the dulcet strains of The Clash had led him to the print lab, where, to his astonishment a lithe, mohawked figure was attacking her computer with a pipe wrench.

"I've found the sledgehammer works better."

"Maybe so" was the reply, "But I don't want to have to glue it back together later."

Despite her tendency towards arbitrary PC demolition, Zarabel, or Zippy as she preferred, had proven to be efficient, hardworking and shared Greg's love of coffee, early punk and harassing Hodges. If she had been around when Greg's troubles at the lab had started it was possible that Greg would have talked to her instead of leaving, however, at that time, she had taken a year's leave to travel, and thus wasn't around when the shit hit the fan.

The opportunity for more, happy, Hodges-baiting reminiscence, was interrupted by the simultaneous whistling of the kettle and arrival of a red-faced and slightly out-of-breath Grissom; with his piece of wall clutched protectively to his breast.

"Coffee, Grissom?"

"Sure, thanks." Grissom paused to take a breath, "I'll sort out the coffee Greg; could you make a start on getting a DNA sample from this blood?" he indicated the board, where a distinct handprint was outlined against as crimson background.

Greg looked at the older man suspiciously, unsure if he should entrust the making of his precious beverage to one whose skills and knowledge in the area were unproven. However, it took only a second of looking into the almost plaintive expression on the older man's face before he gave in, muttering under his breath about what he'd do to his boss if he burnt the coffee. Turning to the piece of wall that Grissom had presented him, Greg proceeded to work through the series of arcane rituals involved in first taking, then analysing the blood sample before, finally, with a satisfied 'clunk', he closed the lid on the DNA analyser and let it do its thing.

It was a bit like baking a cake, he thought. Arrange and prepare your ingredients, turn the oven on. Mix ingredients. Put in oven, come back when the little bell rings to tell you it's done. The only difference was that baking a cake was much more difficult, especially sponge-cake, which in Greg's universe bore closer resemblance to a small windowless building than a cake; fortunately, none of his DNA samples had turned out the same way.

"So Grissom," he said, turning towards the older man, his senses directed by the aroma of non-burnt coffee, "can I have my cup of life support now?"

Grudgingly, or so it would appear to the untrained eye, Grissom handed over a steaming mug of liquid, which was remarkably similar in both colour, and viscosity, to something more likely to be found flowing from a ruptured Iraqi pipeline.

"I didn't think you could make this stuff any stronger, Greg."

Greg shrugged. "Normally you can't, but this stuff is my latest experiment. I've been wandering around buying the darkest roasts I can find and then combining them until I get the strongest, yet best balanced, brew. So far this is what I've come up with."

Grissom winced as he sipped at the bitter brew, "But why? Surely no human would voluntarily partake of this."

"Rilie likes it."

"Well that would it explain it; and how, may one ask, is the redoubtable Ms Andrews?"

"Well, I think. Or at least she was when I last saw her, although at that point she'd just had her third coffee for the day."

"What time was that?"

"About eight o'clock."

"At night?"

"Are you crazy? Morning! If Rilie isn't fully caffeinated by midday then you'd better watch out."

Grissom just smiled. The conversation between the two carried on in a collegial fashion for the better part of an hour as they waited for the DNA analyser to do its thing, finally, the machine chimed petulantly, indicating its job was completed.

"What've we got Greg?" Grissom asked as the younger man peered at the printout.

"Well, the good news is that it isn't a member of the family."

"...and the bad news?"

"Ummm that would be that it isn't a member of the family."

"So of course," sighed Grissom, in resignation, "we don't know who it belongs to, it could have come from anywhere. If only we had something to compare it with."

Both men slumped, dejected, it was as if, once again, the gods were doing everything in their power to deny the team the break they needed. Then Grissom started, for like the cavalry coming over the hill an epiphany charged into his consciousness.

"Wait right there Greg, I'll be back I a minute," and before Greg had a chance to respond Grissom had dashed from the room.

"Who was that masked man?" Greg murmured.

Less than two minutes later, Grissom was back, this time holding a small plastic evidence pouch instead of a piece of wall.

"What've you got there Grissom?"

"You remember the other night when Agatha Babylon dropped in?"

"Yes. Wasn't she claiming that someone was watching her apartment?"

"That's right. Anyway, after you and Rilie left, and I got the others actually doing some work, I went around to her place and had a look at where she said she was being watched from, there I found a small tear of fabric caught on a tree and also a hair."

"You think it might be a match?"

"It's certainly worth a look, it's not like we have anything else to do."

And so it was that the two men found themselves once again sitting and talking as they waited for the infernal piece of machinery to do its job. Finally, after what seemed an eternity their cake was ready.

"Well...?"

"Give me a minute, Grissom, it's not like reading Harry Potter, I have to actually think for a second."

Grissom could barely control himself, subconsciously bouncing on the balls of his feet in agitated anticipation. Finally, just before he was about to elbow Greg in the ribs, the younger man turned to him with a grin, "We've got a match."


	24. Wallow

With every new chapter I seem to keep saying this, 'I'm sorry it took so long' .In this instance my heartfelt sympathy to 'tasha, my beta, who listened to my whining…lots.

As always, she's done a wonderful job, although I must admit to taking some small pleasure in the fact that, for a change, she missed an incorrect possessive in my final draft and thus confirmed that she is indeed nominally human :)

This chapter is dedicated to two fanfic readers whose positive feedback for this and other fics have made getting out of the deep hole of writer's block and apathy that much easier; so _BlueRosesAtMidnight_ and _Vesica_, this one's for you.

Note: I'd like to acknowledge the assistance of David Berkowitz, without whom I never would have figured out how I was going to catch the bad guy in the following chapters.

Finally, in the highly probably event that I don't update for Christmas, everyone have a happy one and here's hoping you don't get a lump of coal.

* * *

_I'm running out of time_

_I'm out of step and closing down_

_and never sleep for wanting hours the empty hours of greed_

_And uselessly always the need to feel again the real belief_

_Of something more than mockery_

_if only I could fill my heart with love_

**_Closedown_: The Cure**

**

* * *

**

A stranger passing by the music room of the university would have been somewhat perplexed as the sounds emerging were more akin to a bunch of English soccer hooligans than that of the gentle art of music. Actually, it wasn't that bad; no foreign supporters had been stabbed, the piano wasn't on fire and bottles weren't being thrown at the police, nevertheless, the language coming from the room was blue enough to make a legion of her majesty's finest naval recruits blush in the manner of a young girl whose puritan maiden aunts had sequestered her in a convent in order to protect her innocence from the inevitable burgeoning of her sexual awakening.

The source of the inflamed language was one Greg Sanders, student by day, frustrated lab tech by night; or was that frustrated lab tech by night and even more frustrated music student by day – it was getting to the point where he couldn't remember. Fortunately, due to the good offices of his girlfriend, the inimitable Rilie Andrews, he wasn't completely frustrated; battered and bruised, albeit in what could be considered a good way, but not frustrated.

It should also be pointed out that the bruises on his forehead came from a combination of banging his head against the wall at the lab and his head on the keys of the piano at college and not from the banging against the headboard of the bed, when Rilie got particularly enthusiastic.

That being said, and all mention of banging, walls and pianos aside, things had momentarily looked brighter at the lab last night as he and Grissom had managed, amongst multiple cups of coffee, to find a DNA match between a blood sample found at the house where the latest multiple murders had taken place and the strand of hair recovered from outside Agatha Babylon's apartment complex. Greg smiled indulgently as he remembered Grissom's near palpable excitement, or a close as the older man got to excitement outside of pupating bugs, at Greg's announcement. Greg's smile immediately faded as he remembered that this was the music room and not the lab and that his creation, his lauded composition, was assuming a status more in sync with its title than perhaps one could wish; for unless thing moved along somewhat more rapidly than they were at present then his work would indeed be presented DOA, and when Mueller got her hands on him he would be able to join in the funeral procession as a fully paid-up, participating member.

The truth was, that of late, he had been distracted from his studies.

Some distractions had been, well…distracting; again, he thought of Rilie at her most… err… distracting.

Other distractions had been; he struggled with his search for a description or even a bad metaphor, as he'd never metaphor he didn't like, before eventually giving up and deciding that they too had been distracting. In particular his thoughts turned to the lab and the demands it had made on his time of late. It wasn't as pleasant a distraction as Rilie, especially when she did that thing with her…he rapidly censored the thought, relegating it to the part of his mind that was used for lying on the sofa drinking whiskey.

He sighed. The truth of the matter was simple; the driving force behind DOA had become, to his mind, somewhat superseded by events. When he'd started writing the piece it had been the focus of his feelings of loss, of not only his sense of self, but his connection with the world at large; in essence it was about hope still-born and now, in light of past events - like a madman running around massacring innocents - such feelings appeared to Greg as little better than petty and selfish; and to concern himself with writing an epic piece of music as a paean to those feelings seemed in retrospect the height of arrogance and self indulgence.

It was a particularly bitter irony, considering that he had left the lab in order to re-connect with the creative part of his psyche and indeed, those feelings he had considered lost; now he was at the precipice of a decision that would see him deliberately abandoning those feelings.

Of course, he was missing the point; that the creative process was never a waste of time, but as was his wont, Greg often overlooked the obvious when trying to undertake multiple assignments. Rilie, if she had been around, would have simply attributed his lack of perception to the existence of a Y chromosome, which by her definition (or at least until the point at which she had had at least two cups of coffee) immediately rendered the owner incapable of anything except the most menial of tasks. In turn, Greg would have contended that he was able to more cold-bloodedly prioritise, but using such a tactic against Rilie was futility in itself as she tended to go all reptilian at the slightest suggestion, again, usually before the addition of coffee, that a mere male was her superior.

Sometimes she was even serious.

After restraining himself from hurling his glass of water across the room, although it would have suited the stereotypical image of the musical _enfant terrible,_ he again took his seat at the piano and dolefully plunked out a few chords in the hope that inspiration would settle on his shoulder much in the manner of a giant stork blocking a chimney.

Of course fate decided that Greg didn't need a stork, what he needed was…a composition professor.

As Greg stared despairingly at the keyboard the door to the music room had quietly opened and Professor Mueller had entered and taken a seat out of his line of sight. Into the echoing silence that was music not being created, her harsh voice cut through the silence. "You know, Mr Sanders, composition is a lot easier if you actually pay attention to what you're doing." She continued in a quieter, almost sympathetic, vein. "That being said, sometimes, composition is not about trying to create something, it's about letting the music describe what you're feeling. It doesn't have to be coherent or logical or even pretty it just has to be."

"Why are you telling me this professor?" Greg remained facing the keyboard.

"Because Sanders, sometimes I cannot leave well enough alone."

He turned to the sound of the door closing quietly behind her. Greg paused, before turning back to the keyboard, his hands idly sketching out the theme to the Twilight Zone as he considered reassessing his belief in the Easter Bunny and the Tooth Fairy.

After a moment of consideration he decided to give Mueller's advice a go. Consciously, he tried to let go of what had become the almost instinctive intellectualism of the composition process, putting aside notions of logical progression and such he tried, once again, to feel the music. Inwardly, he winced and wondered if should be actively looking around for a short green guy telling him to reach out with is emotions.

The only word for what he experienced over the next hour was frustration as each time he followed what he thought to be a promising progression ended up as a musical train wreck. Greg smiled sardonically to himself, thinking that if things continued to progress the way they were then he had the potential to be writing cornflake jingles for the rest of his life. Of course, it was possible that jingles might prove to be profitable and lead him towards a life of wealth and happiness, however, if such was the case, then he would have to buy himself a house without mirrors, insofar as he'd never be able to look himself in the face.

Time crawled. Maliciously. At points throughout that tortuous day, Greg would have testified to its almost feral mien as it slunk through the corner of his mind making seconds feel like hours and hours an interminable punishment. Finally, he had had enough, and it was, of course, at that point that his fingers struck a minor chord, one that had had been tried numerous times throughout that day without success, but now, seemed to make sense. Maybe it was the tiredness and frustration talking through him, but the music flowed, welling from deep inside as he expressed his inner Shelley.

Maybe, he thought, as the experiences of the past few days merged into a seamless whole, Mueller was actually a composition teacher for a reason – well reasons stemming from something other that her apparent psychopathic need to terrify students – and that maybe, just maybe, Rilie, and Prof Doppler, had had a point when she had expressed some small measure of confidence in the professor's methods.

Some would call it coincidence; others would make reference to speaking of the devil and thus initiating an appearance, although Rilie would have been somewhat upset at being compared to the evil gentleman with the kitchen utensil, nevertheless, as Greg was succumbing to the frenzy of inspired composition, the door to the music room quietly opened.

"Back again, professor?"

Rilie, who hadn't thought that she'd made any sound, was momentarily taken aback, Greg didn't, as far as she was aware, have ESP. The instant of indecision was soon replaced with an impish smile as she gave in to temptation.

"Well, I'm not a professor yet Mr Sanders, but if you're telling me you want to play dress-up later this evening, then I'll go away and prepare a lesson plan for you."

Recognising the voice of his girlfriend, Greg turned from the piano and smiled, 'Sorry Rilie, I thought you were Professor Mueller, she checked in on me earlier."

Rilie made show of checking Greg over for injuries, "Are you sure she was here? You appear to be breathing and you're not covered with scratches, maybe you imagined it?"

Greg shrugged. "It's possible I guess, I mean; she was helpful and all, most un-Mueller-like, maybe I was dreaming?"

"I'd be fairly concerned if you were dreaming about Mueller."

"Not as concerned as I would be."

"True." Rilie then smiled maliciously, in a polite well-mannered sort of way, "just for my own edification Greg, if you did happen to be dreaming about Mueller, how would I know?"

"I imagine the screaming would probably give it away."

"I bet your cat would just love that."

"She's used to me screaming."

"Why?"

"That would be due to her clawing me in the middle of the night."

"A sound tactic."

"Maybe from your perspective."

"Your cat. Your feet."

"Just you wait…"

"What on earth are you implying, Mr Sanders?"

Greg looked bemused, "Scarlett O'Hara you're not, Rilie."

Throwing her head back, hand cast against her forehead, Rilie assumed a forlorn look, "Ah do declare…"

"Very funny."

She grinned. "I thought so."

"You would."

Rilie shrugged, before turning her attention to the piano and the sheet music scattered about, "How's it going?"

Now it was Greg's turn to shrug. "Okay, I guess. Certainly a lot better than it was earlier today; I guess I've just had a lot on my mind."

"Still putting in the late nights at the lab?"

"Yep. Grissom asked me specially. This damn Shakespeare case is really pushing the guys to the brink of exhaustion, not to mention exasperation, so it's a case of all hands on deck."

"Isn't that what you walked away from last time?"

"Similar situation, different conditions; I'm getting a bit of respect this time, mainly from Grissom, but frankly, the opinion of the others is largely irrelevant, at least now, if I have problems, I can go and talk to Grissom and I know he'll listen."

There was no missing the emphasis the young man placed on the verb, and Rilie, having heard how Greg had felt previously, knew that having someone whom Greg could consider a mentor was nothing but positive; however, she couldn't help feeling some small level of disquiet at Greg's seeming neglect of his music; and being Rilie, she didn't hesitate in voicing her concern.

"Don't let your music slip Greg, you've come so far with it now that it would be a criminal waste."

"Priorities, Rilie, priorities."

"Don't you get all pedantic on me Sanders, or didactic, or, for that matter, anything else; your music is too important to get left in the dust of an ongoing criminal investigation."

"Thus speaks the music major," Greg noted wryly. "A little perspective here would be a good thing, catching the lunatic out there murdering people is far more important than my scribbles."

"So the actions of a murderer are far more important than musical scribbles?" Rilie, to her credit, only looked murderous, but the tone of her voice was sweet, beguiling even and Greg, if he'd had the sense God gave an oyster, would have recognised the trap being set and fled to the hills.

"Yes. Of course," he sounded puzzled that Rilie would think otherwise.

"So what if…say…this musical scribble was by someone like Mozart, is the murderer still more important?"

"Ummmm yes?"

"You don't sound convinced."

"I'm not so sure about your comparing my scribbles to Mozart's scribbles. Mozart, big, famous, culturally important composer guy; me not so big, famous and definitely culturally important."

"Who's to say you can't be? Or won't be?"

"Surely it's more important to make sure he doesn't kill someone really important than to worry about a might be, or a may be; far better ensuring the here and now."

The young woman regarded him sadly, "No Greg, that's not the point at all, as soon as we give up our hopes for what might be we may as well be dead."

'That's uncharacteristically sentimental of you Rilie."

"Not really, Greg, most people would call it depth; I'm not just a pretty face and a pair of well rounded breasts, I am actually capable of complex feelings other than lust, cynicism and unadulterated malevolence."

"I know that Rilie," Greg responded quietly, "I guess I'm not used to seeing you care about something so passionately, other than yourself I might add."

"Are you calling me selfish you little…" Greg raised his hand to forestall the inevitable explosion.

"Not at all, but you are exceptionally defensive, not I might add, in a reactive way, but in the sense that you don't let any body in for fear of getting hurt."

"…but that doesn't mean that I don't care Greg, and that doesn't mean that I don't hope; I'm just very careful about what I decide to let in and it kills me to see something, no, someone, I care about, that I've let in, prepared to throw it all away because they think that what they do isn't worth as much as something else."

Greg was literally taken aback. This was a side of Rilie that he had never thought existed. He had never made a connection between the obvious anger she held towards large parts of the world and a defensive passion for the things she obviously held dear. He should have known better for it was like he held a mirror to his face and this time found that it was Rilie staring back at him.

"I'm not planning on throwing it away, I'm not quite that far gone," his heart lightened somewhat at Rilie's slow, but definitively present smirk, "but my beliefs put the safety of others before myself and my needs." He thought back to Violet, his mentor, and his failure to be there for her. His heart, his passion for music had died with her, or more correctly been subsumed by other feelings to the point of denial as he sought solace and penance in a career on the positive side of the legal ledger; but that, he discovered, was an impossible quest when he was little more than a shadow pretending to be something of substance. It is said that a house divided against itself cannot stand and it is, to extend the metaphor, equally true that a man divided by the component parts of his very essence is neither fish nor fowl nor Frankenstein's monster. Greg had found that not only could he not be a scientist without music but also that he couldn't be a composer without science.

"Maybe that's the problem Greg, maybe you need to put yourself first for a change."

"I did that by coming here, to university I mean, and while it's brought me a measure of personal satisfaction I don't feel right."

"Right? As in correct for walking away from the lab?" …And how long did that last, she thought to herself.

"No." Even to his own ears he didn't sound very convincing. "No" this time with more certainty, "I feel like I've left part of me behind somewhere."

"So what your are so ineloquently telling me, is that lying around town somewhere is a crudely sheared piece of psyche with your name on it, and, if it is part of you, it's probably holed up in a lowlife titty bar getting drunk on cheap whiskey."

"Gee, thanks for the wonderful character assessment."

Riley shrugged, it wasn't her fault that Greg's psyche spent its spare time crawling around the less reputable parts of Las Vegas; she motioned for him to continue.

"See, the thing is, Rilie, my music feels hollow without the science, I need the lab. Well, actually, no," he said, correcting himself, "It's not the lab, it's the science, the lab merely gives me the perfect opportunity to practise."

"…and where does the music fit into the science?" Asked Rilie, clearly intrigued.

The young man's eyes went vacant for a second as he sought to come up with an answer that was not only coherent, but also accurate, for sometimes the attempt to quantify the esoteric renders it meaningless.

"How about this. Lady Heather is in the business of sex…. No, let me finish" he added, when Rilie was about to object to his definition of her Godmother's activities. "She's in the business of providing a degree of sensualised pleasure through the pursuit of her profession, okay? Now, if you ask her how she views what she does I'll bet you that she calls it an art because everything she does, despite the importance of mechanism and process, is designed to bring out specific emotion and responses. For me the interaction between music and science is the same thing;" he paused, "you see?"

And Rilie did, albeit from a different perspective, as for Rilie the music was the balance point for the rage in her soul held towards her father, in particular, and her family in general. Her compositions were usually compared to one finding themselves being picked up and dropped into the centre of a maelstrom. Unfortunately, most maelstroms generally have a beginning and an end and some sort of contextual framework from which patterns and meaning could be grasped or inferred, Rilie's work inevitably, and some would say invariably, continually battered itself against the bulwark of the senses with unremitting fury; certainly the listener couldn't help but be moved but, more often than not, came out feeling like a double martini: shaken and stirred. For all that, the intensity of her music at least provided Rilie with the degree of catharsis that allowed her to present, at least, a semblance of normality in public; the emphasis here being on semblance as anyone whom had been on the end of her razor sharp tongue would unhesitatingly tell you.

Then there was Greg and it wasn't as if he had become something so sickening as the wind beneath her wings or even, god forbid, the eye of her storm, but his presence had given her another small child to place on the end of her seesaw and so just as Greg's science balanced his music, Rilie's music, and now Greg, balanced her.

Perhaps somewhat selfishly she was afraid that if Greg turned his back on the music he would turn his back on her; such is the price of learning to trust.

"I guess that makes sense Greg, I guess I just don't want you to walk away from your music, it means so much to you."

The young man smiled, "You're right, where else could I derive so much frustration for so little return?"

"That would be the lab, if I take your assorted complaints to be any indication of things."

"Now you're beginning to understand why I need the two; music and the lab, if I combine them I manage to at least reap some measure of satisfaction and achievement."

"You're obviously easily satisfied to be happy with so little."

"That's not what you said the other day "

"…!!!…"

Greg grinned evilly; it was seldom he managed to render Rilie so completely speechless.

"You'll pay for that Sanders."

"Promise?"

"You are so dead, this was a PG conversation."

"The operative word here being 'was'."

Rilie swallowed manfully, it's my fic and I'll _non sequitur_ if I want to and changed the subject back to things non-naked and recreational. "So what does Grissom think of all this?"

"All what?"

"This metaphysical conundrum of yours."

"I have no idea. Mind you, it's not like I've said anything to him he's a tad preoccupied at the moment."

"Shakespeare?"

"Aye. I think Jim Brass is about to offer to build him a brick wall to bang his head against, although knowing Brass it's just as likely that that is his idea of a joke as much as it is a genuine offer of a therapeutic outlet for Grissom."

"Why are you not sure?"

"Because Brass contends that his form of release is going clay pigeon shooting."

"Sounds normal enough."

"Not so much when Brass tells everyone that he uses City Hall bureaucrats instead of clay targets."

Rilie smirked knowingly "I don't imagine bureaucrats are particularly aerodynamic, however, if your friend Brass wants to perform some more testing then I could recommend some of the staff in the admissions building."

It was Greg's turn to cock an eyebrow in mock horror, "That's a horrible thing to do to a clone, I'm not sure the ethics committee would approve."

Rilie sighed. "You can't have everything. Although, being as how this is academia, getting something past the ethics committee has more to do with how you write your proposal than it does with the actual ethics of the situation; Jack the Ripper would have had a good chance of explaining his actions as studies in advanced anatomy with respect to repeated ongoing trauma and getting away with it."

"I'll suggest it to Grissom, I imagine he'd be in favour of putting of putting his least-favourite fruit loop through an industrial mincer."

"That application would have to be made to the ethics committee of the industrial college across town we don't handle manual labour here."

"Isn't that rather elitist?"

"Really Greg, you have to draw the line somewhere, how could you possibly suggest that such a rarefied learning institution such as the one we attend stoop to such mundane matters as wholesale butchery?"

"Have you read some of the first year's attempts at a coherent argument?"

"You might just have a point there." This final comment proved too much for both young people and they collapsed in a gale of laughter. After a moment the two quieted somewhat and Rilie turned to Greg intending to pick up the threads of the conversation before it had packed up its wagon and headed west on a tangent.

"So why's Grissom so upset? I think I remember you telling me that you'd got a trace match on some blood."

Greg nodded. "That's right, the only problem is that that trace match we have only proves that the same person has been in two separate locations, there's nothing on any of the criminal databases that match?"

"What about medical databases?"

"The don't keep DNA records on patients unless there's a specific reason to. For example, if they're mapping a hereditary disorder, or if it's court ordered, pending a criminal trial, things like that. Now, it's perfectly true that our friend with the knives would qualify for such a court order but it's not possible to go back in time to do it and we also can't test every male in the Las Vegas area."

Rilie grinned, "I imagine that the civil rights attorneys would have an absolute field day with that."

"Oh yes, and even if it did somehow get through the courts we don't have enough police officers to enforce either the order or to stop the mass migration that would surely follow."

"Mass migration?"

"Yup." Greg nodded, "of every criminal in the area as they headed for the hills." He grinned suddenly as a thought crossed his mind. "You know, however, it might just be the first time in recorded history that migration across the border into Mexico exceeded border crossings the other way, or it would if Las Vegas was anywhere near Mexico."

"I don't imagine there's any chance of getting access to the medical databases just on the off chance that said psycho is actually on record?"

"Nah, more of that pesky doctor patient privilege thing; unless of course you know a good hacker?"

"Heaven forefend that you suggest such a thing Greg Sanders, and here I was thinking you were such a fine, upstanding individual."

"Well technically I still would be if I didn't get caught; of course such a thing would be incredibly unethical and worse still I'd have to explain just how I came by the information to Grissom, I can just imagine that conversation."

'Where did you get this information Greg?'

'I found it.'

'Where?'

'Somewhere.'

'Is this somewhere a place that I want to know about?'

'Errrr not really.'

"…and it would just go downhill from there."

Rilie made a small moue of sympathy "Don't worry Greg, it could be worse."

"How?"

She shrugged "I don't know, I was just trying to be supportive."

"Try harder." He paused, before continuing in a lighter vein, "Of course I could always mysteriously leave the information on someone's desk."

"Was there someone in particular you wanted to set up for an IAD investigation or would you let random vindictiveness sort it out on the day?"

"I have only the best interests of justice and the department at heart."

"You keep telling yourself that. Anyway, and just for variation, returning to something remotely approaching the subject…"

"Which one?"

"Which one what?"

"Subject."

"Right." Rilie had to stop and think for a bit as she tracked her train of thought down and wheel-clamped it, "you have a choice, killers with knives or the angst that is the life of Greg Sanders."

"Can I take the fifth?"

"Not if you want to have sex again anytime this century."

"I assume you mean with you?"

Rilie arches an eyebrow speculatively, "If you're even thinking about having sex with someone else then I'm going to make use of the piano lid," Greg visibly winced.

"Presented then, as I am, with such a wide range of felicitous and non-injurious options I think I'll take 'killers with knives' as a starter for ten, Bamber."

"Sanders, you're weird."

"You're only just noticing this?"

"The true extent of it perhaps. Anyway, back to the topic at hand and if you try and change the subject again I'll beat you to death with the piano stool."

"Right. What did you want to know? Remembering, as usual, that I can't actually tell you anything that hasn't been released to the media."

"So, based on the fact that you haven't actually told the media anything, discounting that line of piffle your friend Brass gave to the silicon airhead, you're not going to tell me anything, right?"

"Right."

"Except for the fact that you have matched trace samples from two distinct locations."

"Right. Errrr no. Aw shit, Rilie, I shouldn't have even told you that."

She grinned. "It's alright, I won't tell anyone…" she paused dramatically, "…maybe."

"…Rilie…" this time there was no mistaking the seriousness, or the warning, in the young man's voice.

"Relax Greg, I'm just teasing. I did have one question though."

Greg sighed resignedly, "And what was that?"

"How's this guy getting around?"

"How'd d'you mean?" Like from crime scene to crime scene?"

"Yeah."

"We don't know. No one has ever seen him come or go."

"So it is definitely a he then?"

"Yes…dammit, Rilie!" She grinned unrepentantly. He continued, albeit through clenched teeth. "To answer your initial" he glared and she pretended to cower and fend off his gaze, "question, we're fairly certain he has to use a car or private transportation of some sort. Sure, for the first couple of kills he could have gotten away with carting around his gear on public transport, but once the public awareness and hysteria – and a whole lot of innocent tradesmen cornered by well meaning vigilantes – started there was no way he'd get around in anything other than private transport; either that or he's carrying an interdimensional portal around with him."

"But nobody's seen anything?"

"We're guessing he parks a fair way away from the scene and then walks in."

"And again, no-one has seen anything?"

"Not so as he could be linked to a vehicle. He usually strikes in the evening so that's going to reduce the likelihood of people seeing things too. If I remember He did run into a pedestrian one morning, I think they were walking their dog, but his face was obscured so they couldn't tell us anything other than the fact that the person was big and they carried a bag."

Rilie nodded; there was aught else she could do with Greg not only making sense but trying to be helpful insofar as he was able. "One final question Greg, how far out from a scene do the police usually canvas?"

"Usually just the local neighbourhood; it's both a logistics and a resource issue."

"Oh well." She shrugged and got up from where she was sitting. "I can't solve this without food, let's go back to my place and have some dinner; I'll even cook."

"Is that safe?" He questioned, albeit with a smile.

"That depends on your definition of safe, although my spag bol hasn't killed anyone yet."

Greg pretended to wipe his brow in relief, before gathering the various composition materials he'd brought with him from the various corners of the room. "Let's go then."

Hand in hand the young couple left with only the aether to hear Rilie's parting question: "Greg…who the hell is Bamber?"


	25. This Fractured landscape

Well, another chapter completed – this one took a wee while because my muse hi-jacked me and made me write a one-off Stargate Fic; which hardly anyone read **mutter grumble snarl. **Anyway, after sulking for a while, I managed to grind this chapter out.

This chapter differs slightly from pretty much the entire work as it doesn't focus on the CSI's, but frankly folks, if I didn't do some criminal exposition somewhere and progress the story otherwise we'd still be watching everybody spin their wheels for another hundred thousand words or so and I wouldn't want to do that to anyone, least of all myself.

Thus, here we are – parts of this are quite good, other bits bark like a dog; unfortunately you get that. As always thanks to 'tasha the wonder beta and to those readers who've taken the time to review, I sincerely appreciate it Do it more

* * *

_The reasonable man adapts himself to the world; the unreasonable one  
persists in trying to adapt the world to himself. Therefore all  
progress depends on the unreasonable man._  
**George Bernard Shaw**

_Love is a word that is constantly heard,  
Hate is a word that is not.  
Love, I am told, is more precious than gold.  
Love, I have read, is hot.  
But hate is the verb that to me is superb,  
And Love but a drug on the mart.  
Any kiddie in school can love like a fool,  
But Hating, my boy, is an Art._  
**Ogden Nash**

_I value kindness to human beings first of all, and kindness to  
animals. I don't respect the law; I have a total irreverence for  
anything connected with society except that which makes the roads  
safer, the beer stronger, the food cheaper, and old men and women  
warmer in the winter, and happier in the summer._  
**Brendan Behan**

**

* * *

**

A policeman's lot is apparently – with apologies to Messer's. Gilbert and Sullivan -never a happy one; unless, of course, one happens to be a policeman in the latest Hollywood blockbuster, in which case, the likelihood of your catching the bad guy, winning the girl, humiliating your superiors and getting all the catchy one-liners is upward of one hundred percent. It goes without saying that you will be brilliant, but deeply misunderstood. That your partner will be the diametric opposite of you and that you will take time to adjust to each other with the evolution of this relationship being shown through 'clever' sight gags and the use of the 'catchy' – but seldom witty – one liners. You can also guarantee that the main bad guy will always have one fatal flaw; usually very fatal if the film is particularly stereotypical; it is also par for the course, that any and all henchman of said bad guy will retain the native wit and intelligence of a brick while lacking the general charm and aesthetic appeal of said brick.

Oh yes, inevitably the hero will be placed in a situation that will result in an opportunity for the shackles of mediocrity to be cast aside as the hero leaps into action, defeats the bad guy, gets the girl, saves Christmas, cures AIDS and brings about world peace- although not necessarily in that order.

Of course, the relationship between the life of a Hollywood cop and the real thing is about as close as the loving relationship shared by the respective heads of Mossad and the KKK on any given day.

Another thing that was ominously self-evident to Patrolman Cassidy O'Shamrock, was that the brass of the LVPD hadn't seen a lot of Hollywood movies of late, otherwise they would have given him a medal for 'interrogating' Linda, from the typing pool, on top of the photocopier, instead of sending him off to one of the slightly less salubrious suburbs in the sprawling metropolis in search of those traffic offenders who were derelict in settling those matters of financial reconciliation so dear to the heart of the current administrative regime. It didn't help matters that the list he was working from was obviously a direct translation from dyslexic Serbo-Croatian and as such he had spent at least half and hour walking in circles while he sought to understand how he was supposed to issue a ticket to a loading zone for parking on a bakery.

Startling intelligence was not something the patrolman was known for.

Nor was, despite his name, the luck of the Irish.

Both would prove his undoing.

It was several hours and numerous loud and acrimonious visits into his perambulatingly circuitous torture before he arrived at the relatively respectable looking apartment building. The building was relatively unscathed as buildings go, insofar as the local graffito artists had not yet graced the exterior surfaces with either the benefits of their wisdom or their epileptic-like scrawl which indicated to others of that ilk that said being had been in the area; O'Shamrock, in one of his more lucid moments, wondered why they didn't simply cock a leg against the side of the building if leaving their mark was their major purpose in life. Likewise, those miscreants who usually spent several hours a day pulling the wings off flies and bullying those shorter than themselves had, at this juncture in time, been good enough to leave all the ground-floor windows, intact and all the exterior light-fittings attached. However, the apartment block, for that it retained some semblance of superficial respectability, held the overall aesthetic appeal of a transvestite, heavyweight boxer; that is, squat, blockish and largely immovable with a façade reminiscent of poorly applied makeup; even the plants that sporadically decorated the various window boxes looked like they'd rather be somewhere else.

The young patrolman stopped, checked the address of the building against his notes, and resignedly, finding that this was indeed his next stop, proceeded to wearily climb the abbreviated flight of stairs to the entrance; a faux-Victorian affair with a doorknocker that made your average gargoyle appear attractive by comparison. As was usually the case with the less well-to-do neighbourhoods the door was not linked to any sort of security buzzer and thus O'Shamrock let himself in. He paused to ponder, in his own glacial way, the irony that meant that those that really needed protecting from their neighbours were the ones most exposed to them. Of course O'Shamrock didn't really know what a wealthy person's apartment block looked like as his captain had informed him that he'd shoot the younger officer himself if he went anywhere near the richer parts of town.

Just inside the doors was a bank of letterboxes, thirty in all - ten per floor. According to his notes, O'Shamrock's client (as such people were now referred to in the updated bureaucratic lexicon) was supposed to live on the second floor and surprisingly on the requisite apartment's letterbox, written in a bold clear hand, was the occupant's name right where it was supposed to be; this should have immediately alerted the officer to the fact that something was seriously wrong; normal people weren't prone to openly admitting that they lived in such quarters, but here, clear as day, was a bold declaration to the effect that you were at the right place to find this person. O'Shamrock, instead of being suspicious, took it as the first piece of good luck he'd had that day.

Of course, O'Shamrock was the sort of person whom, if he'd been a male black widow spider, would have brought the wife flowers in anticipation of a positive outcome; training, observation and even basic intuition were things that appeared to have either been left out of, or had completely bypassed, his set of operating instructions.

Taking the stairs, as even his weary feet couldn't justify a two-flight elevator ride, O'Shamrock rapidly ascended to the second floor, it was, despite the relatively dim lighting, in relatively good repair; that is, all the doors were attached to their respective frames and the majority of the walls were not rent with the signs of limited impulse control. Directly across from the stairs was apartment 2E and, to its right, in the murky, barely visible distance, 2D, thus the young officer turned to his left and proceeded, at an easy pace, down the hallway mentally ticking each apartment off in his mind until he arrived at his destination: apartment 2J. The door was non-descript without even the slightest indication of the owner having made any attempt to personalise the entrance to their demesne; even the brass numbers were dull and lifeless appearing to capture and devour the available light in a manner similar to that of a black hole.

Of course O'Shamrock, intent as he was on ensuring that this was indeed apartment 2J, noticed none of this; his attention to detail was clearly indicative of a time when the department had been somewhat lax in applying certain basic standards to their recruiting procedures; although some citizens, more cynical that others, would have considered it a resounding success that a police officer was able to recognise and form the letters of the alphabet without the assistance of a seeing-eye dog.

Transferring his papers to his left hand, the officer knocked politely at the door, waited a second, and then repeated the process. Not hearing any movement from behind the door he shrugged and decided to simply note down that there had been nobody home and leave the collection to the next poor bastard who happened to offend the powers that be.

Turning towards the stairs he didn't hear the door quietly open behind him and thus nearly leapt out of his skin when a quiet voice addressed him.

"What can I do for you, officer?"

The quietness of the voice was at odds with the size of the man it came from, who at well over six foot and clearly not likely to be boxing in the featherweight division not only dwarfed O'Shamrock, who was not a small man, but filled the door frame with ominous ease.

Taken somewhat aback, O'Shamrock floundered briefly with his notes in a desperate attempt not to scatter paper about the hallway. Recovering his composure, he peered at the documents in his hand, "Mister…Bates? Mister Anthony Bates?"

The man nodded his assent. "That is I. How can I help you?"

O'Shamrock consulted his papers, "It says here that you have over twenty unpaid parking tickets going back five years and…" he flipped over a page, "several others that while not due as of yet will soon be added to that total."

Bates seemed momentarily confused, his face appearing to go blank as if he was consulting an inner voice as to how best to respond. "That is most peculiar officer, I don't have a car; in fact I have never owned a car."

O'Shamrock again referred to his papers, "It says here, sir, that you have a 1994 Chevy Impala registered in your name." He rummaged through the file and held out another of his documents for Bates to examine, "is that your signature, Mister Bates?"

Bates, looked briefly at the officer for permission before taking the paper, a DMV registration form and examined it with something akin to active suspicion. "That does indeed appear to be my signature, officer, however, there must be some mistake. Do you mind if I examine some of my own papers?"

"Not at all," he smiled toothily, "I'm all in favour of resolving things; especially…" he muttered "if it will get me home."

Bates appeared to smile in sympathetic acknowledgement, "I understand completely, officer. Do you mind waiting? Please…come in"

'Thank you…"

O'Shamrock never saw the man spin lightly on his feet, a remarkably agile feat for someone of that size. Neither did he see the large boning knife as it slashed across his throat spilling his lifeblood onto the floor in a crimson torrent. Finally, he did not hear the whispered apology from his assailant as he slumped lifelessly into the pool of his lifeblood the sibilant whistle of his death rattle the last sound he made in this world.

* * *

It was several hours later when the alarm was raised at O'Shamrock's precinct. Well, that's not strictly accurate; it was several hours later that someone noticed that the constable wasn't back from his walking punishment, muttered something about the idiot getting lost for the third time that month, and promptly forgot about him. Another hour passed before someone really noticed he was missing and decided to inform the captain who had to think for a moment before making appropriate noises of concern instead of starting an impromptu conga line through the office.

"Where did we send him today?"

"Down to the Madman's Circle, Captain." The area was so named not because of its inhabitants but due to the somewhat individual nature of its layout, so designed by a city planner who proved to be just a little too fond of certain psychotropic substances. By the time the rest of the planning division, moving at the speed of dark so common to bureaucracies everywhere, had discovered that their colleague was a lunatic the contractors had already finished half the area, which, while formally called Warrington Downs was regularly referred to as the Madman's Circle.

"He's probably lost again."

"Sir, with all due respect, Robert Falcon Scott would get lost down there, I think it's something else."

The captain sighed in that time-honoured fashion reserved for senior officers who wished their duties involved deserted tropical islands and assistant bikini model castaways. "Very well. I assume someone was wise enough to keep track of where O'Shamrock was supposed to be going?"

"Yes sir, right here," his assistant held up an officious looking sheaf of official documentation.

"…and has anybody checked as to where he has actually…" The captain's assistant was already holding a list of locations where the officer was confirmed as being seen.

"Errr, yes…thank you Corporal O'Reilly. So…" said the Captain, absentmindedly, where do we start looking?"

"Well Sir, if we follow the logical train of O'Shamrock's movements…" The captain looked somewhat askance at the notion of O'Shamrock following a logical anything but indicated for the corporal to continue, "…he should have last been seen at the corner of Scylla and Charybdis; paying a visit to a Mister…err…Bates."

"…and has anyone contacted Mister Bates?"

"No response, Sir."

"Very well, O'Reilly," said the captain, surrendering to the inevitable, send a car down to Mister Bates' address and see if he knows anything."

"Assuming he's there, Sir."

"Yes yes," replied the captain, waving off the addendum, "If he's there.

* * *

Fifteen minutes later, Officers Colostomi and Haberdasheri pulled up outside the building dispatch had directed them to. They sat for a moment contemplating the horror that awaited them before Haberdasheri shrugged and motioned for his partner to follow.

"C'mon Mike, we're not here to arrest the architect."

For his part Mike Colostomi shrugged, he'd had plans to become an architect when he entered college but after a year of studying what passed for modern architecture he decided that the only options open to him were either to become an architectural vigilante – that is, a person who hunted and killed architects before they could inflict another steel and glass monstrosity on an unsuspecting public – or he could become a monk; he split the difference and chose the police force where he felt he could defend the blameless citizens from the actions of other, more malevolent creatures…like architects.

Once Colostomi exited the car, the pair slowly climbed the stairs to the apartment's doors.

"What do you think he's done this time?"

"I shudder to think. Here's hoping the lunatic's only managed to get himself lost again." Haberdasheri winced in remembrance; the precinct had barely recovered from the last time O'Shamrock had wandered off, no one knew why he had been trying to drown the mime in the civic centre fountain and he hadn't been able to explain himself, but the captain got to hear, from the mayor, up close and personal, all about why it was considered bad form for the police to attack members of the public – even if they were mimes – and that if it happened again the whole precinct would be scrubbing City Hall with a toothbrush; well, several toothbrushes, probably their own as the capital budget for the year didn't extend to the supply of punishment toothbrushes. Ironically, or perhaps depending on your point of view, inevitably, O'Shamrock escaped with barely a harsh word spoken but then that is often the way when your father's sister is married to the state governor.

Colostomi grinned at his partner's fatalism, "You never know, the young idiot might have done something interesting this time."

"The only interesting thing O'Shamrock could do would be to throw himself under a bus," was the growled response.

"What number does this Bates live at again?"

Haberdasheri consulted his notebook, "2J, but in consideration of our colleague's knowledge of the alphabet, he might have missed it." He snorted "he's probably in Saudi Arabia by now."

"Well, the only way we'll find out is if we go up there and ask this Mister Perkins if he's seen our boy."

"OK Mike, last chance though, are you sure you want to find him?"

"And what do you think the Captain'll do to us Len, if we don't?"

"What? Find him?"

"Yep."

"Probably give us a medal."

Colostomi simply grinned at his partner and started climbing the stairs. It didn't take long for the pair to reach the second floor and less than a minute more for them to correctly orient themselves and head down towards apartment 2J. Colostomi cocked

his head at this partner and indicated that he should knock.

Haberdasheri's raised eyebrow in return, eloquently asked why it should be him but he acceded nonetheless and beat upon the door with the heavy staccato rhythm intrinsic to policemen, landlords and pizza delivery boys.

The polite inquiry was met by an echoing silence. "Once more?"

"Why not?" Came the inscrutable reply.

"I can give you a whole raft of reasons." But again, he acceded to his partner's silent prodding and knocked.

Again. Nothing. Not even an agitated neighbour, more nosey than circumspect, investigating the noise.

"Well I guess that's it then, Mike, no one home. Mike?" Haberdasheri's partner wasn't listening; instead he was looking at the floor by the door, like he was trying to make something out. "What is it, Mike?"

"Don't know, hang on a sec'." Colostomi unclipped his flashlight from his belt, flicked it on and swung the beam over his foot, which was resting nicely in a slowly coagulating pool of blood that had obviously pooled and settled after flowing out from under the door.

Unlikely though it seemed, Haberdasheri's eyebrow rose even higher "How did you notice it?" he asked.

"I must have put my foot right in it when we arrived, I only noticed when I was turning to leave after no one answered the door; my shoe was starting to stick to the floor; I thought it must have been a spilled drink or something," he paused, "obviously not."

"You don't think O'Shamrock shot the poor bastard for not paying his parking tickets do you?" Haberdasheri stopped and thought not only about what he had just said, but also with regard to whom it referred, he shrugged philosophically, "then again, it's entirely possible so we'd better go in. Ready?"

"I'll just call it in.

"Right."

A few seconds later Colostomi indicated he was ready to go and thus once more, Officer Haberdasheri knocked on the door, this time accompanied by the requisite declaration that this was indeed the police and that if someone didn't open the door real soon they, the police, would open it all by themselves.

"What did HQ say?"

"You're asking me now?"

"I just want to make sure before I kick the door in."

"They said to keep them posted. Somehow, I think that because it's O'Shamrock they're expecting him to have shot himself in the foot and we'll find him passed out on the couch."

"Right." Sometimes Len Haberdasheri wondered who was more stupid, O'Shamrock, by right of birth, HQ, by dint of bureaucracy or himself for looking for one and taking orders from the other. "Ready Mike? Let's go! This is the police, we are coming in!"

With the application of the designated official police foot to the area just below the lock the door burst inwards and the two officers duly burst into the room to be greeted with a sight they neither expected nor wanted. They had indeed found the recalcitrant officer O'Shamrock, for he was directly in front of them, admittedly he was nailed to the wall with his throat slashed, but found was found.

"You don't reckon he did that to himself do you?"

"Well, it beats the alternative," Haberdasheri looked around the apartment with a look of mild interest on his face "and that being said, I think we should probably check out the rest of the apartment to make sure the alternative isn't hiding in the shower with a knife or two."

"Not much gets to you does it, Len?"

"I'm screaming on the inside."

Colostomi shrugged, "If it makes you happy. I should probably call HQ and give them an update."

"I'm sure they'll be simply overjoyed at this development" was the deadpan response, "tell them to bring coffee."

Mike shook his head. "Dispatch, this 341 we have a body, officer down…"

"…No he's not, he's pinned to the wall…

"…Requesting backup, the coroner and CSI…"

"…And coffee, don't forget the coffee…we'll also want the media, a priest and an ignorant City Hall bureaucrat to inflame public fears…"

"…Hang on dispatch. Len? Shut up would you?"…Sorry dispatch, what was that? O'Shamrock? Yes, we found him…"

"…And it's the best he's looked all year…"

"…I'll get back to you dispatch, I'm just going to shoot Officer Haberdasheri, 351 out."

Haberdasheri didn't appear too concerned. "You ready to check this place out?"

"I doubt he's here."

"True, but what makes you say that?"

"Because he would have killed you by now; I'm on your side and I want to kill you. Actually, if our killer shows up and tries to kill you I'll probably offer to help."

His partner shrugged. "Okay."

Colostomi sighed, "Len, you really have to get another job."

"Probably. But where would you be without me."

"In a far happier mental place I imagine." Mike gestured sadly to the wall and O'Shamrock "shall we take him down?"

"No, leave him there, the place is a bit bare, needs a discussion piece." Haberdasheri saw his partner's lack of amusement was serious this time and raised his hand in mute apology. "Sorry, Mike. Leave him there the science geeks will probably want to prod him with something before taking him down." He looked again at the body hanging limply on the wall, "poor kid…poor, stupid kid."

* * *

It what had to be some sort of citywide record for police response, the building, where Officer O'Shamrock had been slain, was swarming with police in under ten minutes - already the eulogies had begun; it was into this seething morass of confusion that Grissom and Nick arrived; the medical examiner, who had arrived moments before the pair, greeted them from a position beside the still suspended body.

"Evening gents."

"Evening Peter," was Grissom's somewhat stoic reply.

"What've we got?" asked Nick, "other than the obvious," he amended hurriedly.

"It's alright Stokes, I knew what you meant." The ME paused to gather his thoughts, "there's not a lot I can tell you, I just got here myself, but I can say without fear of hesitation that he was hung up post-mortem."

"No blood splatter?"

"No. All the victim's blood would be over there," he gestured towards the door. "Let me know when you're done Gil, so I can take the poor bastard down."

"Fine. Peter, can I assume there was no one else in the apartment at the time the body was discovered?"

"Not as far as I know, but then, that's not much, I'm just the ME; the two officers that found the late Officer O'Shamrock should still be around though."

"Thanks." Grissom turned back to Nick, "Okay, do you want the body, or do you want to check the place out for trace on our killer?"

"I'll take the body Grissom, you're better with the trace stuff than I am." It was a rare moment of humility for the Texan, but it was enough to make Grissom smile to himself, finally, he thought, it looked like Nick was growing up. The boy had remarkable potential, but he was also selfish and predominantly thought in terms of what an assignment could do for him, a recognition of his limitations hopefully presaged a change in attitude and it was from that point that his real education would begin; for, to Grissom's mind – as well as the minds of a whole lot of ancient philosophers, knowledge did not begin until you admitted that you knew nothing.

Grissom looked around the room searching for the two officers to whom the Medical Examiner had referred; it made sense to excluding the obvious – and original - scene contaminants from the mix before he began a more thorough search of the premises. While the room with the body in it wasn't large it swarmed with people whose every action centred about the corpse; Grissom imagined this was how a bee must live with the dead officer standing in for the queen. He extended his analogy further to encompass the fact that, like workers and drones, the majority of the swarming mass of officers, attendants and various hangers on looked the same, except in this instance the drones wore blue instead of natty black and yellow suits. Finally, a brief parting in the crowd showed two officers seated on a divan, both were equipped with large mugs of a steaming beverage that Grissom had no doubt would be coffee, probably with an ethanol based derivative added for good measure.

"Officers?" he asked, having slowly and carefully worked his way across the room, "I'm Gil Grissom from the Crime Lab, may I ask if you were the first officers to arrive at the scene?"

A silent nod in the affirmative was his only answer.

"Do you mind if I ask you a few questions? I want to establish the integrity of the scene before I examine it further."

Both officers shrugged, it wasn't as if they had anything better to do. Taking their response as an invitation to proceed, Grissom continued.

"In what state was the apartment when you arrived?"

"I couldn't tell you, the door was closed, but once we kicked that down it was pretty much as you see it now; minus all – sorry, most – of the blue shirts."

"Most?"

"Well, O'Shamrock was pinned to the wall when we arrived, and he's still there now. Can I ask if you're going to take the poor mongrel down at some point? The kid might have been an idiot, but he was our idiot and it's not exactly fantastic for morale to see him doing an impression of a butterfly."

"Yes…err…quite." Grissom appeared somewhat taken aback by the cynical nature of the officer. Seeing his look, and interpreting it correctly, the other officer spoke up.

"Don't mind Len, his view of the universe tends towards the somewhat bleak; sometimes I think he's of the opinion that at some point in the near future the human race is going to dissolve as a result of its own stupidity."

Gil shrugged, "He may be right. Did you touch anything?"

"Yes, we're idiots."

"Len, shut up. We tried to touch as little as possible. Of course we had to make sure the apartment was secure and we checked to see if there was any chance the kid was alive, although we could both see that was going to be an exercise in futility from the moment we walked, sorry, crashed in."

"Okay, thanks. I assume you'll be available if I have any further questions?"

The officer whom had been answering his questions grimaced "I imagine we'll be buried in paperwork for the foreseeable future, so we won't be going too far."

Grissom, having more than a passing acquaintance with paperwork himself could only nod sympathetically. Nodding once more in acknowledgement of their help, the lead CSI turned to survey the apartment. From his current point of view it appeared that there was only one door, other than the exit to the hallway, leading off from the scene of the crime. Exiting the room, he entered what appeared to be a small junction, from which all the other rooms in the apartment appeared to branch off from. To his left was a small, self-contained bathroom, straight ahead the kitchen and to his right, what appeared to be a bedroom; well it had a bed it in for whatever that was worth. Deciding that the bedroom, being the most likely personal space in the apartment and therefore, from the perspective of probability, more likely to speak of the person who lived there, was the best place to start, Grissom turned right.

To say that the room was Spartan was to understate things, and if Grissom had hoped that the room would in some way speak to the personality of it's owner then he was greatly disappointed unless, of course, the owner was a blank slate. The only thing that leant even the slightest air of humanity to the environment was the existence of a small, threadbare teddy bear that sat, with a look of grave introspection, on the pillowed end of the bed. Taking care not to touch it, Grissom moved forward to examine it more closely. Not being an expert on soft toys Grissom could make no definitive guesses as to the provenance of the toy but he could see that it was a well-loved object and it was this, and he cursed his sentimentality, which gave him some measure of hope for a successful and humane resolution to the nightmare that this case had become. He took a large plastic evidence bag from his box of tricks and carefully inserted the bear, treating it with all the respect one would an important piece of evidence no matter how incongruous.

Moving from the bedroom, Grissom next entered the bathroom, small and nondescript it was little better than an ablutory bolt-hole where one, in comparison would could be made to feel less confined in an aeroplane's toilet. Like the bedroom, the bathroom was singularly lacking in anything that cold be taken to signify a person lived here. The array of modern beauty condiments routinely used by the great (un)washed to signify their spark of individuality to the monochrome face of the capitalist engine were missing, and even the solitary bar of soap looked like a refugee from a self-service toilet at the local petrol station. The only item of interest was an empty medicine bottle that sat in forlorn isolation on the sink counter. Examining the label, Grissom experienced a welter of emotions: relief, frustration and no little anger as it appeared that the silent reach of Pax Romana was indeed a nightmare made manifest; this too he safely ensconced in a plastic evidence bag. He took on final look and seeing nothing of further interest exited and returned to the main living area.

Nick, on seeing his supervisor's return, picked his way through the crowd, the expression of distaste on face clearly visible.

"You would think," he stated somewhat tartly, "that a room full of police officers would know better than to go tramping all over a crime scene."

Grissom shrugged, "They're trying to make themselves feel useful. Remember, Nick, this is one of their own and they failed to protect him, there's a whole lot of guilt floating around at the moment."

"They didn't even like the guy though."

"You don't like your sister, but I don't imagine you'd be very happy if someone killed her; especially in such a fashion as this."

"Well true," Nick conceded, before getting a wicked gleam in his eye, "I'd hope they'd be a little more original. It's a shame," he added thoughtfully, "that arrogant pretension isn't a fatal disease."

"True. But think that if it were a disease then you probably wouldn't be here as your parents would have died looking down their noses at each other before you were conceived."

Unlike most people, who have heard their parents horrifically insulted, Nick grinned; he'd forgotten that Grissom had met his sire and dam. Even Ecklie had loathed them, which in consideration of Ecklie's rehabilitation in the eyes of all and sundry due to the, now widespread, knowledge that the man was indeed human and not, as previously suspected, a vampire, was not unsurprising.

"Anyway, Nick, were you able to get anything new off the body?"

"Sorry Grissom, there's a few fingerprints, I guess they belong to this Bates person, which is unsurprising considering it is his apartment and I guess that would make him our killer.

"We don't now that Nick, it's only an assumption. The killer could have broken in and was pretending to be Mister Bates or it is possible that he previously killed Mister bates and hid the body…"

"Grissom? Do you know what a pedant is?"

"Why, yes I do Nick, I believe the definition says something akin to a pedant being a person who's not afraid to do the job properly when everyone else would rather be at home."

"Touché"

"Do we know anything about this Bates person?"

"Not yet although I heard one of the officers saying something about the information being made available to all parties concerned as soon as possible."

"Okay. Can I leave you to finish up here and to make sure that the information about Bates is sent either faxed or emailed back to the lab, I'm heading there now."

"Right, Grissom. Grissom? You alright with them taking the body down?"

"Yes, Nick. Go ahead. I'll see you later."

"Later, Grissom."

* * *

It was half an hour later when Grissom arrived back at the lab. The traffic on the return journey had been nightmarish as the city slowly disgorged itself of the human detritus that littered its buildings and byways. It was at times like these, Grissom thought, as he was trapped at the third set of traffic lights he'd encountered in a hundred metres, that the city showed itself as an integral part of the living human entity, much like an ants nest. He had smiled quietly to himself at that, he definitely needed a holiday. What with first comparing the crime scene to a bee hive and then the city to an ants' nest, he obviously needed to getaway and think about something other than bugs for a while; he'd have to see if Agatha was free if for no other reason that that the arguments would be particularly stimulating.

The first thing Grissom encountered when he arrived was the receptionist waving him down. Despite the urgency of the situation he paused; sometimes receptionists had important things to pass on. In this instance it was, while not important, somewhat ironic; Nick had called to say that he would get a ride back with the Medical Examiner. In Grissom's desire to depart the scene with all due haste, and his delegation of responsibilities to Nick, both men had forgotten that the young Texan had arrived with Grissom by way of Grissom's vehicle. While it was fortunate that Nick could hop a ride back with the ME, and also fortunate that the medical examiner hadn't killed anyone with his driving of late - at least not in a physical sense - departmental scuttlebutt had it that Peter was a frustrated Formula One and that he made the departmental Volvo do things it's designers had never imagined possible for a vehicle of that type. Grissom shuddered inwardly at the stories he had heard and gave thanks that the Volvo wasn't equipped with a gun turret; he hated to think of the trouble the medical examiner – the highly regarded and much respected medical examiner - would inevitably get into if his car had a gun turret. Fortunately, it wasn't his problem. He then took a second to apologise to Nick and to pray for his, hopefully, continued existence.

The, penance completed, he hurried on.

He paused briefly at the DNA lab thrusting the bagged teddy bear and medicine bottle into the hands of a startled Greg, muttered something about testing it to see if it matched and headed out the door. Greg was fazed only briefly, before making a connection between where Grissom had come from and the other DNA tests he had performed of late. Admittedly, the bear came as something of a shock, but professionalism to the fore, he started the job of closely examining the bear for any hint of potential forensic evidence, whilst doing his best not to damage the bear in the process as it looked slightly mournful and, as such, the young tech had to resist the urge to reassure it that everything would be alright.

Grissom reached his office and such was his haste that he almost collided with Brass whom had come, at equal speed, from the opposite direction.

"I've got something for you Gil" Brass indicated a tidy pile of folders held loosely in one hand

"With any luck that should be some information about an Anthony Bates."

"Looks like you're in luck then."

"Give it here," and with unseemly haste, in fact, before Brass could even react, Grissom had snatched the files away.

If Brass was surprised, he didn't show it; although, to the observant, it would have appeared that the detective had developed a particularly significant twitch. Schooling his already stoic expression he gave his colleague a second before he spoke.

"Interesting files?"

"mmmm"

"You have two seconds before I stomp on your foot."

"Really?"

Brass shrugged; he had warned Grissom, and it wasn't like he didn't need the exercise, bearing in mind his age and general lack of fitness. Despite the fact that Brass was wearing soft suede loafers, Grissom's foot gave a satisfactory crunch as the older man bore down with the heel of his shoe; Grissom yelped satisfactorily

"What the hell did you do that for?"

"I trust that I now have your attention?" Brass's expression was one of beatific innocence; "I did warn you."

"Stamping on my foot is hardly professional, Brass."

"Fun though."

Grissom looked bemused as if he couldn't quite reconcile the image with the reality, he knew Brass was a pragmatist; he had just forgotten just how far that pragmatism extended.

"So, what does the file say?"

"You didn't look?"

"I had no reason to, I was simply passing by the fax machine when it came in and a very harried office assistant handed me the papers and pushed me in the direction of your office."

"Still being ordered about by the office staff?"

"They organise the stationary and the pay slips and as such I'd be a fool not to."

"There is that I suppose. Anyway, to answer the question you didn't ask, this guy, Anthony Bates, may just be our Shakespeare Killer."

"What makes you say that?"

"I've just come from his apartment, which had just been freshly decorated with a police officer; stapled to the wall no less." Grissom paused, his expression thoughtful, "I think you might want to suggest that consideration be given to changing the colour of the police uniform, it clashed horribly with the décor."

"I'll be sure to pass that on," was the purposely bland response. "What makes you think this is the Shakespeare Killer, other than the method of death of course; could easily be a copycat."

"True enough. I've got Greg doing a DNA match as we speak. I've got two previous samples that match, one from the last murder - the family, and another taken from outside Agatha Babylon's apartment, if this third sample, from the apartment, matches, then I would say that we're looking at something far more than simple coincidence."

Brass nodded, "You're probably right. So, what does the file say?"

"Bugger all, actually. The man's a cipher. Well, he added after a moment's thoughtful consideration, that's not precisely true, there's no criminal or medical records attached; although, with that bottle of Pax Romana floating around at his house there has to be a medical report floating around somewhere. What information we do have is primarily from his academic transcript. He's thirty-four, born in Mesopotamia Ohio, entered college on a double scholarship both sport, football, and academic. Apparently he gave up the football after four years but transferred to Harvard to do a PhD in English Literature, with his thesis examining the allegorical and thematic use of death in the plays of Shakespeare."

"Surprise, surprise."

"Yes, thank you, Gomer…Anyway, after he completed his degree he pretty much dropped out of sight; I suppose we can chase down the various Alumni associations and see what they know."

"That's all moot at this point in time Gil, until we know that this guy is indeed our killer then what you have here is several pages of unfounded supposition."

According to Murphy, the correct time for a lab assistant to appear bearing DNA results would be straight after a statement like the one made by Brass, and lo, on the horizon, appeared a Sanders in full gallop.

"Grissom…" Greg was puffing like an overexcited bellows, "I have your results."

"They match don't they?"

" No."

"No! You're kidding?"

Greg grinned, "Yes I am actually, they match."

Sometimes, Murphy isn't such a bastard after all.


	26. If you go down to the woods today

Well… here we are again, who'da thunk?

So, as glaciers race past my window, I thought I should possibly post another instalment. You know, it's irritating, I keep trying to finish **or maybe that should be 'kill'** this story and my muse **harpy?** won't let me. Sometimes I wish I could write more than one story and a ficlet at the same time but as I'm the sort of person who gets confused walking and breathing at the same time it's probably not a good idea to completely overload my alleged brain.

I would also like to blame the lead-lighting course I've started in the last fortnight for delaying this update – I may be able to string a word or two together, but alas, cut a straight line in glass I cannot.

As usual, thanks to 'tasha, my beta, who will no doubt be howling at some of the underdone grammar and syntax and a special thanks to Dermestidae Masculatus who said a lot of very nice things to me I would also strongly recommend her work: 'A Marriage of Convenience,' the first Sara/ Greg fic that didn't leave me swearing violently at the aether.

Finally, as always, thanks to those of you who continue to read and support this fic, through your reviews and emails you have not only kept me on track **vaguely** but probably spared some small measure of my sanity.

* * *

_Had this been an actual emergency, we would have fled in terror,  
and you would not have been informed._

___In the beginning was the word.  
But by the time the second word was added to it,  
there was trouble.  
For with it came syntax ...  
**-- John Simon  
**_

___"I have often been called a Nazi, and, although it is unfair, I don't let  
it bother me. I don't let it bother me for one simple reason. No one has  
ever had a fantasy about being tied to a bed and sexually ravished by  
someone dressed as a liberal."  
**---P.J. O'Rourke**_

___****__**

* * *

**_

___**There is a lot more to a toy bear than fur and Dacron filler; bears are repositories of memories and secrets. In our darkest times, when we hide from the world, when we are hurt or frightened we bare our souls to the thing that is closest to us, that is always supportive, that is always our friend. Greg held the small bear in his hands – his latex- covered, evidence-protecting hands – but hands nonetheless and remembered. His bear had been small too, with a torn ear and a vaguely puzzled expression as if it was constantly working to understand its human. Sometimes, Greg had felt that Morris, his bear, was his only friend, at the very least his only source of comfort from the predatory nuns that prowled the corridors of his school. But this bear, the bear of an ostensible killer told a different story, held different secrets and had absorbed another's tears.**_

___**Greg laid the bear gently on the worktable and dragged one of the many magnifying devices that littered the lab towards him and began a slow, careful inspection of the toy. It was no great surprise to find the bear covered in fibres; after all, it had fur and between that, and the wonders of static electricity, Greg would have been surprised if the bear hadn't; what was important was to determine which fibres were actually of evidential value. Slowly he prised cotton, wool and something, which may or may not have been sisal, from the pile; well, he thought, if I don't find any DNA evidence I can probably knit myself a nice sweater or make a quilt for Benzene.**_

___**Finally, after a further fifteen minutes concerted searching, Greg was able to tease what appeared to be a human hair out of the matted fur. Sighing with no little relief and a degree of – albeit professionally repressed – excitement he began the process that would result in the extraction of trace DNA from the hair. However, before chopping up the sample and going all scientific on it, he paused to thank the little bear for his patience before carefully placing him to one side so he could watch as Greg worked.**_

___**When Tom Petty sang about the waiting being the hardest part, he wasn't kidding. Greg paced his lab with a nervous energy usually seen only at those times when he'd run out of coffee; even the bear was starting to look as if he was about to get motion sickness simply from watching the young man.**_

___**So Greg sat…and bounced in his chair…before getting up and pacing the room even more frenetically…before bouncing on his chair some more. Maybe the bear's former owner had worked with someone like Greg previously, because the bear was about ready to kill the lab tech by the time the buzzer indicated the sample was ready. Then Greg was off, like an Olympic sprinter chased by the drug testing agencies he hurtled down the corridor intent on finding Grissom. Seconds later he was back, and with what could possibly have amounted to a victory lap he grasped the report out of the DNA analyser and sped out the door.**_

___**So much promise, the little bear thought sadly, but so little thought; he settled in to wait for the strange human's return.**_

___**It was only ten minutes later that Greg reappeared, his face flushed and excited. He picked up the toy and spun in a circle, "We got a match little man; we got a match!"**_

___**The bear didn't respond, nor did he appear particularly excited and it was this lack on enthusiasm that slowly returned Greg to earth.**_

___**"I understand little guy that you don't want to lose your friend." He paused in sad reminiscence, "Losing people is always hard," his voice quieted, "but sometimes we have no choice, sometimes we have to move on, and sometimes we just have to be grateful for what we have."**_

___**Greg smiled at the toy, "Thank you for reminding me of what I have. I'm going to call Rilie? My girlfriend" he clarified, as he was pretty sure that the bear and Rilie had yet to be introduced.**_

___**Picking up the phone he dialled Rilie's number from memory and only had to wait a few moments before a groggy voice answered?"**_

___**"Wha…..?"**_

___**"Rilie?"**_

___**"No, it's fucking Santa Claus, what do you want?"**_

___**"It's Greg…"**_

___**"Oh…Sanders," her voice brightened somewhat, "What time is it?"**_

___**Greg looked at his watch "It's just after nine."**_

___**"In th'… morning?"**_

___**"No, evening. Where are you?"**_

___**"At home, on the couch, what's up?"**_

___**"Just thought I'd call."**_

___**"You're not getting sentimental on me are you, Sanders? What next, bouquets and poetry?"**_

___**Greg grinned in spite of himself; Rilie was waking up. "Don't mock Andrews, or I'll inform your godmother that you've been making fun of the institution of romance."**_

___**"Somehow I can't see her worrying Greg, she doesn't get a lot of lost romantics visiting her." Rilie thought about that for a second, "Actually, by strict definition, it probably would be a lost romantic, a very lost romantic."**_

___**"Maybe she does, who are we to define precisely what constitutes romance?"**_

___**"Have you been inhaling fumes from the gas chromatograph again, Sanders?"**_

___**"Why?" he asked somewhat suspiciously.**_

___**"Because you're starting to sound like a love struck adolescent."**_

___**"…And what if I am?"**_

___**"Well… you… err… umm…bastard…"**_

___**Greg smirked to himself, "That was impressive."**_

___**"Shut up, I haven't had any coffee."**_

___**"As excuses go that's pretty pathetic."**_

___**"Well it's the best I can do at the moment so you'll just have to live with it, if you want better excuses you can come round here and I'll beat them into you."**_

___**"You been taking lessons from Heather again?"**_

___**"Something like that; but you don't seem to be complaining about it."**_

___**"Probably 'cos you'd just hit me harder."**_

___**"But only with your best interests at heart, Greg."**_

___**While he couldn't see her, he was fairly sure Rilie was grinning, "Yeah sure, that's what you said last time when you left me tied to the bed as you drank coffee in front of me." Deciding that this conversation was getting nowhere, well nowhere constructive – depending, of course, on how one defined constructive – Greg decided to return the conversation to something vaguely resembling the original topic. "So, why did you fall asleep on the couch?"**_

___**"I wasn't asleep!" she proclaimed indignantly, "I was merely simulating an alternative state of consciousness."**_

___**"Oh course you were, and while in this alternative state did you get that cute little frown you get when you're sleeping?"**_

___**"How would I know?"**_

___**Greg shrugged, before reminding himself that he'd have to verbalise "There is that I guess; anyway, I did call for a reason."**_

___**"That'd be a first."**_

___**"As I was saying…I did call for a reason. I'm finishing up in a few hours, do you want me to come around?"**_

___**"Sure" and there was no mistaking the enthusiasm in Rilie's voice, "Have you eaten?"**_

___**"No, I haven't, you offering?"**_

___**"Sure, I can whip something up, and you can have me…sorry, strawberries, for dessert."**_

___**"Can I have both?"**_

___**"Only if you clear your plate, Greg, for as the song goes: 'If you don't eat yer meat, you can't have any pudding. How can you have any pudding if you don't eat yer meat?"**_

___**"Err yes, Okay, Rilie, please back away slowly from the incense burner."**_

___**"Sanders, you're a lunatic, I'll see you later."**_

___**Greg was left holding the phone from which could be clearly heard the sound of a disconnected line, shrugging, he replaced the phone on its cradle and turned to look at the bear, which appeared to be regarding him with a degree of curiosity.**_

___**"Just you be glad you don't have to put up with an insane girlfriend."**_

___**The bear looked dubious, but said nothing and Greg went about his business.**_

* * *

___**"This is dreadful Corbin, absolutely appalling, how something so terrible possibly happen?"**_

___**"I agree, Waldorf, the department is quite distressed, morale in incredibly low amongst the ranks."**_

___**The mayor regarded his chief of police with a degree of puzzlement before recognition dawned, "Oh yes, your officer; dreadful business, simply dreadful."**_

___**"That was what you were referring to wasn't it, Waldorf?"**_

___**"What? …Oh...err…yes…I mean…no, I was referring to the impending visit of my mother-in-law; but your officer's death is very bad news, dreadful business, simply dreadful."**_

___**"Did I mention that he was related by marriage to the Governor."**_

___**"A tragic loss of such a fine young man, I'll contact the Governor immediately to pass on my condolences."**_

___**"Brown-noser."**_

___**"Yes, completely, what's your point?"**_

___**"None, I just wanted it noted."**_

___**"Well now you've completed your mission was there anything else you wanted?" The mayor sounded tired, more to the point he sounded tired and looked worse; worse even than an impending visit from a maniacal mother-in-law generally generated.**_

___**Despite his frustration with the mayor's terminally obtuse perspective with regards to his ordering of priorities Calliope was concerned for, above and beyond the fact that the idiot was his mayor, Waldorf Astoria was also his friend.**_

___**"What's really going on, Waldorf; oblivious you might be, callous you're not, what's really got you so distracted that you're this complete a mess; it sure as hell isn't your mother-in-law, I've met your mother-in-law and she's as near a candidate for sainthood as any other person I've met; I'm not even sure she's the same species as your wife."**_

___**Astoria smiled wryly "That's what she says too, blames it on some bad shellfish during the pregnancy."**_

___**"I bet your wife just loves hearing that."**_

___**"You think my mother-in-law is stupid enough to say anything like that around that psychopath?"**_

___**"I'm sure she doesn't think of her daughter like that, Waldorf."**_

___**"Ha!" barked the mayor, "Don't forget you've met my wife too."**_

___**"Well yes," Calliope conceded, "There is that, Anyway, Waldorf, what's up, really?"**_

___**With an obviously heavy heart, the mayor sat in one of the heavy leather armchairs that dotted his office; he took time to pour himself a generous portion of single malt and, after offering the same courtesy to his guest, stared pensively into the middle distance. "It was bad enough when he was killing single citizens, then he graduated to families, and now the police; and there's nothing we can do." His gaze shifted to his glass, staring into the amber liquid as if it could provide him with answers; wryly he smiled, although a truthful individual would have called it a grimace full of self-loathing. Turning his face to Calliope, he raised his glass in a mocking salute,**_

___**"In **__vino veritas_, they say; but I can find no truth here."

___**"That's because it's scotch Waldorf." Gently, he took the glass from his friend's hand, "we will catch him, you know, it's only a matter of time; although, if you could free up the budget so we could buy a couple more pedal cars it would be a fine thing."**_

___**The mayor's answering smile was wan, but it was enough to let Corbin know that he had, at least, punctured the air of melancholy that surrounded the mayor.**_

___**"It can only get better Waldorf, things can only get better."**_

___**Calliope had no idea how wrong he would prove to be.**_

* * *

___**He ran.**_

___**He ran because he was instructed to run.**_

___**…And yet, there was dissent. Not from him, for, in his capacity as vessel he was essentially nothing; but for those that fought for control there was a susurating chorus of rancour as each put their case for ultimate suzerainty. Finally, a degree of consensus was reached, the type of consensus where every party has a gun and far too much ammunition, but a consensus nonetheless. That there would inevitably be bloodshed was a given for in the blood was purification and thence definition. The more blood spilt the harder the fires that drove them raged until phoenix-like they would rise again to begin the cycle anew.**_

___**If Bates had retained awareness he would never have submitted.**_

___**Finally, he stopped running. Vacant with disorientation and lost in the madding crowd of his thoughts he didn't question, didn't react as his hand closed on the door that was the entrance to Saint Tarantula's Orphanage.**_

* * *

___******Quis Custodiet Ipsos Custodes**_

___****__By Agatha Babylon_

___****__When we ask who watches the watchman it is generally assumed that one is referring to an integrity process, that we assume those who hold some measure of power must, in some way, be held accountable by either a higher authority or some sort of moral code. _

___****__I'm pretty sure that quis custodiet ipsos custodes was not referring to a child-minding service… _

___**…**__Yet it would appear that a child minding service is necessary, as our resident lone psycho has declared open season on our police force. _

___****__I must acknowledge, in the interests of journalistic integrity, that in the past I may have been a bit hard on our staunch defenders of public safety, indeed, I may have gone so far as to infer that they are incompetent, under-trained, a waste of tax payer's money and in general about as much use as, if you'll excuse the term, 'tits on a bull'._

___****__That being said, never in my wildest loathings would I support their ritual slaughter, ritual banishment perhaps, but never ritual slaughter._

___**….**_

___**"What do you think so far, Grissom?"**_

___**"Don't you think you're being a little harsh?"**_

___**Babylon looked at him strangely.**_

___**"Okay," Grissom conceded with a sardonic grin, "this is remarkably restrained by your standards, are you sure you want to take such a conciliatory line?"**_

___**"Now now, no need to be sarcastic."**_

___**"I should leave it to you, perhaps?"**_

___**"Something like that."**_

___**"Whatever happened to you appreciation of honest criticism and feedback?"**_

___**"I took it out back and shot it."**_

___**"That sounds relatively ominous."**_

___**"Don't flatter yourself, Grissom, I'm saving my bullets for the mayor."**_

___**"Are you saying I'm not worth a bullet?"**_

___**"Not just yet, I have other plans for you," she riposted, casting a mock-lascivious smile in his direction.**_

___**Grissom, his eyebrow raised in horror, or something vaguely related to it, gestured towards the article displayed on screen in front on him, "Do you want me to continue?"**_

___**"Read on McDuff."**_

___**……**_

___**…**__of course, if we banish our police force then who do we turn to? The mayor?_

___****__Frankly, I wouldn't let Waldorf Astoria guard himself in solitary confinement let alone anyone else. Now, to be fair, Astoria has, for the first time in recorded history, actually made the city turn a profit and hasn't deposited it in an offshore account, but while financial acumen and integrity is well and good – and probably heretical - in a public figure, concepts of forward planning and working for the public good should also be worthy of some small measure of consideration._

___****__Personally, I would consider keeping the members of the public alive a public good, but, being but a lowly reporter, who am I to determine what's truly in the public interest._

___**…**_

___**"Isn't that slightly disingenuous?"**_

___**"Who? Moi?" replied Babylon fluttering her eyelashes.**_

___**"Do you really think Astoria doesn't care that people are dying?"**_

___**"Of course he cares, he's incompetent not callous. However, Grissom," and her face turned serious, "the fact of the matter is that the police department is hideously under funded and that is due, in large part, to Astoria's financial policies, which, while making sound financial sense fail to take into account the human cost; but then, what else could you expect from a former accountant? Tell me, Grissom, did you ever stop to wonder just why it was that your CSI unit was so hideously under funded?"**_

___**"I just assumed it was another one of Ecklie's evil schemes."**_

___**"Ecklie?"**_

___**Grissom shook his head, "Never mind, just someone I misjudged."**_

___**"You? Misjudge someone?"**_

___**"Shut up, Agatha."**_

___**…And seeing no other viable course of action, she did, albeit in lieu of conversation she leant across the desk and kissed Grissom with all the passion intrinsic to her nature.**_

___**Not that Grissom objected. He wasn't really taken by surprise; but that, of course, is not how the game is played.**_

___**"What was that for?"**_

___**"You told me to shut up?"**_

___**"And that's your idea of shutting up?"**_

___**"I didn't hear you objecting."**_

___**"It's quite difficult to object when one's oesophagus is partially blocked by an intruding entity."**_

___**"So I'm an entity now?"**_

___**Grissom looked the petite woman up and down with a carefully scrutinising gaze "I'm not entirely certain that it would be in my best interests to respond at this time"**_

___**"Is that a tactical retreat, Grissom?"**_

___**"Possibly," he said, hedging his bets.**_

___**"Well, if it is," she replied, "you can tactically retreat in that direction," she indicated a door behind him.**_

___**"What's in there?"**_

___**"A large bed."**_

___**"Madame, are you attempting to seduce me?"**_

___**"I certainly hope so. Now move."**_

___**Grissom, not being completely clueless, obeyed, although he paused at the door and gestured towards the computer, "What about your article?"**_

___**"It can wait."**_

___**The door to the bedroom closed with a finality that spelt either doom or something very similar.**_

* * *

___**As one door closed, another door opened in a different part of town.**_

___**"You took your time."**_

___**"Nice to see you too, Rilie."**_

___**"Grissom keep you late?"**_

___**"No, he left early, but I stayed on so I could catch up with some of the other cases that I've let fall behind schedule due to the priority placed on this Shakespeare Killer thing."**_

___**"You're making progress then?"**_

___**"I guess you could say that."**_

___**Rilie looked surprised "How d'you mean? You know the name of the guy in whose apartment the policeman was murdered."**_

___**"It's not illegal to live in an apartment where a crime was committed, Rilie; if that were the case then we'd have to arrest a statistically significant proportion of the city. I imagine, however, that the police would like to contact the owner of the apartment and discuss with him certain activities that have occurred in his residence of late."**_

___**"Are you feeling alright, Sanders, you sound like you've eaten a lawyer."**_

___**Greg grinned, "Let's just say that, of late, I've learnt to become a little more circumspect."**_

___**"In other words, you don't want Mueller attacking you in the corridors any more?"**_

___**"No, it's not that," he smiled to show that he was aware that Rilie was, in her own way, being funny, "it's more a case of since Grissom started taking me seriously I've started taking myself, well more my duties I guess, more seriously, and as such that involves not leaping to conclusions or making unfounded assumptions."**_

___**"…And speaking in sentences that require your average member of the public to use a road map and a machete to navigate through." Rilie regarded the young man, her young man, thoughtfully, "is this really what you want Greg?…"**_

___**"…What? To be taken seriously? You know that was one of the reasons why I left the lab in the first place…"**_

___**"…No…" she interrupted, "I mean, this new, seriousness, this new professional ability, or maybe that should be inability, to call a spade anything other than a sharp-edged, manual turf removal system."**_

___**Greg looked thoughtful, he knew that the crux of Rilie's question wasn't so much about his need to be valued by others as it was about whether this new approach made him feel good about himself; certainly he could understand how one could use the veneer of professionalism to raise one's self esteem, but in this case he was fairly sure that this wasn't the case, he was becoming more professional simply because the situation called for it.**_

___**"It's always a possibility," he replied, acknowledging the point, "but not this time, I guess it's just a natural evolution, the music's going well, work's going well, my personal life is going well and most surprisingly of all, even my cat is talking to me."**_

___**That last comment alone proved that Greg was still Greg; despair momentarily warred with delight in Rilie's mind as she knew that it was inevitable that she'd have to launch a charm offensive against that damn cat, either that or a rocket propelled-grenade.**_

___**"So what's happening in the land of Sanders?"**_

___**"Well…pompous, professional circumspection aside, not much. Lab's busy, most of the resources at present are being thrown at Las Vegas' favourite psycho, the big problem of course is that we have several threads of important circumstantial evidence that we haven't been able to tie up."**_

___**"How do you mean?"**_

___**Greg thought for a second, "Okay, you remember how I said before that just because the guy lives in an apartment where a murder occurred doesn't necessitate that he is the murderer?" Rilie nodded, "now extend that idea further to included several DNA samples from different crime scenes that all match, including the site of the last murder. Now, logically, you'd assume that that would prove that the person living in the apartment committed the crimes; unfortunately, it doesn't, all it indicates is that a specific person was at all of those crime scenes, it doesn't tell us for how long, or when. What we need is for the owner of the apartment to come forward so that we can DNA test them to either exclude or associate them with the previously collected and matched samples, if the freshly taken DNA from the subject matches only at that point can we start building a case against them."**_

___**"Isn't that unnecessarily complicated?"**_

___**Greg shrugged, "This is the law not a stupid crime drama on the television. Admittedly, we are possibly being excessively anal in this instance but the last thing anyone wants is for this guy, whomever they might be, to walk away on a technicality."**_

___**"Okay, that's enough boring job stuff, what else's new?"**_

___**"New? Rilie, I saw you two days ago, not even the lead journalist for the National Enquirer could make something up in that time."**_

___**"That's alright Greg, I'm just making polite conversation before I drag you into the bedroom…"**_

___**"Don't I get a say in this?"**_

___**"You had other plans?"**_

___**"A hearty game of scrabble perhaps? Then we could read the Bible or maybe the tax code."**_

___**"I'll give you biblical, smartass…" Slowly, almost teasingly, Rilie began to undo the buttons on her top.**_

___**"Alright…alright; we won't read the bible." The seeming panic in Greg's voice was belied by the twinkle in his eye.**_

___**Of course Rilie really had no intention of ripping her clothes off then and there although the scenario did contain a myriad of mouth-watering possibilities; however, while jumping the young man with the all the enthusiasm of a psychopath in a slaughterhouse wasn't, in this situation, entirely appropriate. Part of Rilie's restraint was centred in the knowledge that Greg hadn't come to see her solely for the release the sexual act brought; although judging from past performances both participants had been awarded high marks for technical ability and artistic merit by the judges. Greg came to see Rilie because he genuinely enjoyed her company if for no other reason that for the quality of the insults he would receive.**_

___**Also, and hidden deep in the bottom-of-a-coalmine-in-a-blackout part of her mind, Rilie was quietly beginning to accept that this relationship – although she was loath to use such an amorphous concept - was assuming a status of more that a semi-casual fling and as such she didn't want to screw it up. The reality of course was that she couldn't screw it up if she tried as Greg was so far gone, but having limited experience with intense feelings like these she was somewhat scared.**_

___**Solution: changing the subject.**_

___**"Sanders? Can I ask why you have a plastic wrapped bear sticking out of your jacket pocket?"**_

___**Greg tried unsuccessfully to hide the blush that marched across his features with the speed and determination of a German Panzer division.**_

___**"It's evidence from a case."**_

___**"Isn't a somewhat non-regulation to bring evidence home for the evening?"**_

___**"Ummm…maybe."**_

___**"…And if it was discovered that you had brought this evidence home would you get into trouble?"**_

___**"…yes…" Greg was sounding more and more miserable by the moment.**_

___**"So why did you do it?"**_

___**"Because I di'n' wa' I' t' ge' lo''ly…" his voice trailed of making the already mumbled sentence even less decipherable.**_

___**Rilie rolled her eyes at her boyfriend, "Would you like to try that again?"**_

___**Sighing in resignation, Greg prepared himself for the mockery that he knew would inevitably follow, "Okay, I didn't want him to get lonely…alright? The poor little guy had been ripped out of his home and poked and prodded and I guess I didn't feel comfortable just leaving him shut up in a cold evidence locker overnight."**_

___**"Okay."**_

___**"O…kay? Just Okay? You're not going to tease me?"**_

___**"Why would I? What you said makes perfect sense. Now, let's go to bed."**_

___**"Sure, but do you mind if I leave the little guy out here? I don't think the bedroom would be an appropriate place for him to be."**_

___**"Prude."**_

___**"Probably."**_

___**"Fine. He can sit sleep on the couch." She paused, "Greg, you're not going to leave him in that plastic bag are you?"**_

___**"Good point." And with infinite care he took the plastic wrapped bear from his pocket and, removing him from its artificial environment he lay it down gently upon an aggressively patterned cushion. "Good night little guy, sleep well."**_

___**As Greg wandered towards the bedroom, Rilie turned to the bear, "Sleep well little one, we'll see you in the morning."**_

___**As the door to the bedroom closed the room was plunged into darkness except for the flickering of the firelight on the face of the little bear who no longer looked so alone.**_


	27. Chapter 27

_Another chapter. As usual, it took a while, blame my muse she went on extended leave and didn't tell me…_

_In something, which will come as a shock to my loyal readers (all three of you) I am actually happy with this chapter; this is a new feeling for me and I'm not quite sure how to deal with it._

_Additional notes: The quote from Tennyson, come is as excerpt from 'The Charge of the Light Brigade' written to celebrate a particularly famous act of military bravery and command stupidity._

_As always, thanks to 'tasha, who did her usual beta-ing marvel._

_Please read and review – if you want to – I'm feeling lonely _

_

* * *

_

_Had this been an actual emergency, we would have fled in terror,  
and you would not have been informed._

_If God wanted us to be brave, why did he give us legs?  
**-- Marvin Kitman**_

_**Idiot, n.:**  
A member of a large and powerful tribe whose influence in human  
affairs has always been dominant and controlling.  
**-- Ambrose Bierce, "The Devil's Dictionary"**_

_**Harvard Law:  
**Under the most rigorously controlled conditions of pressure,  
temperature, volume, humidity, and other variables, the organism will  
do as it damn well pleases._

_

* * *

_

Sister Magdalena, or, as she was more commonly known throughout the orphanage, Darth Nun, was not one to be easily startled, in fact her equanimity and implacable calm were legendary. Whilst the hordes of larcenous little psychopaths, cunningly disguised as children, had turned even the most vindictive of the nuns to drink, Darth Nun would barely raise an eyebrow in polite interest. Rumour, always a veritable mine of reliable information, had it that prior to becoming a penguin, Sister Magdalena had been either a drill serjeant with the SAS, or a member of the secretly ongoing Spanish Inquisition. The truth was far different. Prior to her taking her final vows, Sister Magdalena had been firstly, a librarian and then a primary school teacher and therefore had extensive experience in dealing with agents of evil who were less than five foot in height; usually a mildly irritated look that intimated that the perpetrators would be treated in the same manner as those who bent the spines of books. For this reason it was common to find the inmates at the opposite end of the building and in the depths of the evening gloom, when all good inmates should have been asleep, they could be heard to add into their bed-time prayers a request for a Saarlac.

Yet, despite her stern mien, Magdalena cared for the children in her charge with a devotion more common to the proprietary concern demonstrated by a mother bear when explaining to a hunter why she would really prefer it if he didn't come within several kilometres of her cubs. In much the same way, the sister stood ever vigilant against the prospective parents who visited the orphanage. Admittedly, her superiors would have preferred it if she didn't scare quite so many away but they recognised her actions devolved from sincere pastoral concern and not from an obscure desire to torment random groups of adults.

This particular day the good sister's meditations focused on precisely what she was going to do to the ungrateful little wretches who had decided, in their wisdom, that the orphanage's cat would look better with purple day-glo stripes; even now, after a thorough cleaning, the poor creature refused to leave the safety of the sister's room. It had taken a while but Magdalena had finally accepted that the Mother Superior would never acquiesce to crucifying those involved and was happily working through, in her mind, a proposal involving boiling oil, when the front door opened. Sister Magdalena was somewhat surprised, while it was not unusual for people to visit the orphanage throughout the day visitors this late in the afternoon were not usual.

Nevertheless, training reasserted itself in the face of her disquiet and she approached the man

"Good day, can I be of assistance?"

As the man faced her he brought to mind an image of an ill-guided marionette whose master, while present, appeared to having only a passing knowledge of how to control his be-stringed simulacrum. "Assist?" He drew the length of his coat aside to reveal a long, sharp-bladed knife, "why yes, I do believe you can be of assistance."

Fabulous, thought Magdalena, it's a refugee from a Hammer Horror. Resisting the urge to inquire as to whether the sister of the bride of Dracula's mother was waiting in the car outside, and noting the extreme care and professional looking edge of the knife at the man's belt, decided that proceeding with some small measure of caution was probably a far wiser course of action than advising him to return to 'Clichés Anonymous' for a better costume.

"Might I ask why you've brought a knife into an orphanage, you'll scare the children." Mentally, she berated herself for the redundancy of her comment, what else did one expect to find in an orphanage: used garden furniture?

"How else shall I kill them if not with my knife?"

The response was matter-of-fact, and all the more chilling for its patent lack of emotion and stilted, overly formal mode, of expression.

"Why kill them at all? What do you achieve by killing anyone at all let alone a bunch of children whom have done nothing to you"

"I kill because I must."

"I think you have the wrong orphanage then, Crystal Lake Orphanage is ten miles down the road."

"I do not understand; all that matters is that there is death."

"Then shouldn't you be wearing a hockey mask?"

Holding her tongue was proving a difficult proposition for the sister although it was a toss-up as to whether she was going to berate the man or laugh in his face. For some reason, although the nature of the ostensible threat was readily apparent, she couldn't take the man seriously, if for no other reason than that his apparent disconnection with a tangible reality appeared to move him from the world of immediate, violent action into a realm of fantasy, of monsters-under-the-bed and school visits to the dental nurse.

She was returned to reality by a sickeningly sharp pain in her abdomen and lowered her gaze to watch as the long-bladed knife was withdrawn from whence it had been thrust. Heartsick at her failure to accord the threat with true concern, she raised pained brown eyes to the man who had done this to her and ask simply: "Why?"

"Because," he answered "I must."

Stepping back, he watched the sister crumple to the floor, before he stepped over her and proceeded into the main body of the building not looking back to see if his first victim of the day lived or died.

Eyes clouded with pain, she watched him go. She tried to call out, to warn the others, the children, but all that emerged from her mouth was a rasp, indistinguishable from a chair scraping on the floor, before a ragged cough brought the taste of blood to her lips. While never one to panic, or to despair, Sister Magdalena's mind vacillated between curling up and dying or standing strong in her faith. Slowly she began to move, at first little more than a half-hearted crawl but as despair turned to determination she began the slow process of reaching the outside world with a warning.

* * *

Morning had broken with an enthusiasm that was entirely inappropriate, at least in the opinion of the two caffeine-deprived figures that lay sprawled in a matted tangle of sheets and assorted pieces of clothing. 

"Wha' ti' ist?" mumbled one of the figures.

"Sometime."

Levering open a steadfastly resisting lid, a bleary eye peered in somewhat bemused fashion at her companion, "Is that an official designation or an approximation based on not wanting to bother turning one's head ten degrees to look at the alarm clock?"

"I daren't it might go off. Anyway, why are you so verbose all of a sudden, your first question wasn't going to make the Oxford Dictionary Guide to Coherent English Usage anytime soon."

"True, but my lack-of-caffeine pain receptors kicked in and semi-consciousness was cancelled in favour of a search and recover mission and thus I woke up."

"…and here we are…" the grin was lascivious, the hands grasping.

With a grin she shoved her ardent – if somewhat uncoordinated – suitor back down "Indeed, but coffee first I don't want to undermine my performance through lack of consciousness."

The grin turned sly; "How would I know the difference?"

"You…you…male; no coffee for you."

"Them's fighting words," and a second later he pounced, proceeding to demonstrate that the addition of caffeine was not a requirement for the pursuit of carnal activities.

…**Several Hours Later…**

Both figures stirred from their post-coital haze.

"What ti' is't this ti?"

"La'er," this was followed by a groan as tired muscles protested at, what they considered to be unfair requests for movement to occur.

"That's a good thing right?"

"Very good," the words rolled out in a sensuous purr, "You are now entitled to one coffee on the house."

A very tousled figure raised its head and grinned, "I guess all that hard work was worth it then."

"Who you calling hard work?" The double entendre slowly sunk into the conscious part of Rilie's brain and she blushed in memory, "…Never mind…"

"You mentioned something about coffee?"

"Subtle, Greg," nevertheless she rolled out of bed and threw on a robe, though not so quickly as to deprive her lover of the chance to admire her trim hind-quarters.

Moments later, a similarly clad Greg joined her in the kitchen, hand outstretched, Darlek-like, he approached the mug of coffee that innocently sat on the kitchen counter unaware of the fate that would soon befall it. Mercilessly, Greg swooped coming in from twelve-o-clock high, like a diving Messerschmitt and before the coffee could think to run, or even scream, its fate was decided.

"Ergggh, that's better. Good coffee" he added a moment later, showing his appreciation of his mate's hunting and gathering prowess.

"One tries."

"Indeed you do and indeed you are."

"Keep that up and you'll be wearing that coffee instead of drinking it."

Greg grinned as he wandered into the lounge and parked himself on the couch, "You say the sweetest things." Placing his coffee on the table in front of him he sat back and relaxed – an impressive effort for someone who had just spent the previous twelve hours in various states of relaxation. Momentarily, however, he began to feel uncomfortable, as if someone was watching him, and lo, there was, for the bear they had left on the couch the night before regarded him with solemn eyes.

"Did you sleep well, little bear?"

The bear appeared to shrug as if to indicate that while it was of no real concern to him he had indeed slept well, thank you. Greg was about to ask the bear if he needed anything when Rilie joined him on the couch.

"Talking to stuffed toys, Sanders, I knew you were cracked, but still…"

"…And if I remember correctly, you were the one who told him to sleep well before you turned off the lights."

"Wasn't me."

"Then I assume it was the clone you keep stuffed in the closet."

"That's right, she does the cleaning while I'm asleep."

Greg smiled fondly at the woman as he looked at the chaotic panorama spreading throughout the house unchecked, "You need to pay her more."

Rilie, in turn, looked about, "You know," she grinned, "you could be right. So," she asked, changing topic, "what did the bear have to say for himself?"

"Not a lot, although he appeared a bit more relaxed than he was last night."

"Should you really have brought him home last night, he is evidence."

"Well…technically speaking, and semantically speaking for that matter, the bear itself is not evidence; certainly he didn't witness, as far as we know, any criminal activities, and he certainly didn't participate. Also, I took more photos of the poor wee bugger than your average Vogue shoot and picked him so clean of fibres that I'm surprised he has any fur left…"

"That doesn't really stack up as a legitimate explanation does it, Greg?"

The young man looked momentarily guilty, "Well no…but if I talk really quickly and get the little guy home before curfew I don't imagine there'll be a problem."

"Why am I not convinced?"

"That would be because you're not entirely stupid," he sighed, "I probably shouldn't have brought the bear home, but I felt sorry for him, and frankly, it feels like the right thing to have done, so the regulations can get stuffed."

"Well it's not like they can fire you again."

Greg smiled mirthlessly, "That would be something, certainly, watching Grissom pitch a fit would be a major tourist attraction, but you're right, I've already quit once so the threat of being fired isn't something they can hold over me, but if I'm being honest I don't want to leave just yet as I'm kinda enjoying myself…and…"

"…Your music career has yet to take off…" Rilie continued.

"That's right."

"So," she continued, "how is the masterpiece coming along?"

She was rewarded with the patented Sanders' smirk, "If madam would follow me to the piano…"

* * *

He stalked through the orphanage like an avenging fire, righteous, that is, but without too much thought given to consequence or action; certainly, it was just as well that he was murdering innocents in an orphanage and not crossing the road for all the attention he was paying to his surroundings. Where previously, his actions had been the epitome of planning and economy of purpose, here he was profligate, and young bodies were strewn in his wake: some dead, some live and some in that indeterminate place termed limbo, hovering between life and death and subject solely to the indefinable whim of a madman. Not that the children went through such a rigorous process of existential examination, all they knew and, for that matter, all they cared about, was that a bad man with a knife was making their friends hurt; and, for the elder amongst them was the realisation that if they didn't move quickly then they too would be on the receiving end of a good filleting. 

Not that the man would have noticed.

He was beyond noticing. Beyond caring. Beyond understanding...

…and beyond redemption; not that that obvious fact stopped the nuns that ran the orphanage attempting to do so, with words, prayers, and the contents of the children's recreation cabinet. Unfortunately, while the damage a youthful miscreant is able to inflict with a baseball bat can be somewhat substantial the comparative force generated by an elderly nun is significantly less so and to the intruder it was if he was being assaulted by a particularly shortsighted, annoying and perhaps more importantly, ineffective penguin. To the man it didn't matter, they all bled the same, young or old.

To the remaining nuns it was if Tennyson's poem had come to life:

_Was there a man dismay'd?  
Not tho' the soldier knew  
Someone had blunder'd:  
Their's not to make reply,  
Their's not to reason why,  
Their's but to do and die:  
_

The children were their charge, their fateful duty, and their valley of death. As one they cursed the architect whom had designed the building with but one exit and moreso the church hierarchy who consistently delayed in retrofitting another as the city fire code had stipulated. Of course, the city wasn't going to prosecute the church over the matter of a simple fire exit; they didn't prosecute molesting priests, so why bother with anything else? Now would be an extraordinarily good time though, they mused.

Maybe it was some form of gallows humour that was taught at nun-school, but Lord, they prayed, now would be a really good time for a miracle; a seven foot high, three foot wide miracle with a lintel and nice stained-glass work. Unfortunately, the Lord appeared busy with other matters and didn't have time for a piece of one-off construction.

But then again, maybe the lord moves in mysterious ways after all. For the man with the knife, and the unwholesome attitude, had stopped, transfixed in front of one of the smaller children. Too scared to run away, the child had simply collapsed where they were and there they sat quivering like an animal in a hunter's spotlight, hands clutched tightly about a precious toy bear.

…And the bear met his stare with guileless eyes and the man remembered.

Then the earth went still.

* * *

Hours, and in some cases years, later those policemen who arrived first on the scene described it as one of the strangest things they'd ever seen, for they found one of the most dangerous men in the city staring, as if transfixed, at a small child who held before them nothing more than a small stuffed bear for protection. All and sundry quite readily admitted that if the child had been holding a live, full-sized Grizzly bear that would have given the man reasonable grounds to freeze in his tracks, but neither the child – nor the soft toy – appeared to represent any genuine threat so, at that initial point in time the authorities didn't make any immediate connection between the man and the bear; they were too busy making jokes about how the energiser bunny's batteries appeared to have fallen out his arse; such is the catharsis of knowing that this day you will not die. 

To be fair, the arrival of the police on the scene was, by the standards of the Las Vegas Pedal-Car Brigade, pretty rapid, but then, the presence of a staggering, bleeding nun cluttering the streets tends to elicit a reaction in even the most blasé of public officials. Truth be told, the arrival of Sister Magdalena, blood-covered and near incoherent in pain elicited a response from several pedestrians, a gaggle of school children and the head of the local temperance league. Interpreting this licentious behaviour as yet another attempt by the Catholic Church to undermine the moral fabric of society – for their male-only priests wore dresses and the women dressed as an avian life form - the upright fellow proceeded with all due diligence to contact the authorities, informing them that a nun had run amok after clearly, due to the spreading crimson stain on her habit, having overindulged in the sacramental wine.

Arriving with all due (relative) haste, the police, with the gentle restraint and understatement for which they were universally known, piled out of their cars and pointed numerous weapons of various calibres at Sister Magdalena - who was at this point face down on the curb - and informed her that not only was she under arrest but that she had the right to an attorney, and finally, that she had the right to remain silent; which would be appreciated as he moaning was scaring the children whom had gathered, along with various other vultures posing as members of the public, to watch the scene unfold.

Finally, one of the police, less impressed with the size of his weapon than his fellows noticed that the wine was still flowing.

"Sarge?"

"What is it, Mathias?"

"Well, either we're witnessing a miracle right up there with the wedding at Canaa, or that's not wine."

"Who got married at Canaa? Was it one of them celebrity weddings?" The Serjeant was a national enquirer reader, and his only contact with the bible came from reported sightings of the Virgin Mary in the local road kill.

Mathias merely rolled his eye, "Something like that; anyway, how 'bout we help the nun?"

"Ya think?"

"I doubt she's in any position to strangle you with her rosary, and if we don't stop to help here someone will be along to issue her with a citation for littering the sidewalk and that will murder the public relations budget for the year."

"I guess you're right, Mathias." The Serjeant considered his actions before addressing the nun in a voice little short of stentorian, "Are you all right there sister?"

While the reply was somewhat strangled there was no mistaking the aggravation in its rasping tone. "Do I look alright, you idiot? Is there some possible way in which you imagine that I'm doing this for fun? Actually no, I'm not a nun bleeding to death on the side of the road I'm a fucking performance artist, now either leave me some cash or piss off, I don't care which."

"Now sister," the Sergeant's voice was placating, "that's not the sort of language I would expect you to be using. Now, I ask again, how may we be of assistance?"

Sister Magdalena turned a tortured gaze upon Mathias, as if to ask if the Serjeant was for real, or if he was some figment of her imagination induced as a result of blood loss. Mathias shrugged and quietly suggested to his Serjeant that he return to the car and call for an ambulance.

As the Serjeant ambled off, Mathias knelt by the nun and quietly tendered his apologies, all the while attempting to judge the extent of the injury. "I'm very sorry sister, I'd shoot him myself, but we're a bit short staffed at the moment and we're having to employ the terminally desk-ridden on the streets.

Through pain-filled eyes the nun regarded the younger man, "You have to get in there," she rasped, "He's there."

"Where sister? And who?"

"The orphanage and, …" it was due solely to the fact that the sister's body was wavering between passing out from blood loss, or just plain-and-simple agony that she forwent the necessity of providing a vivid description of the policeman's genetic predisposition towards redundant questions. Instead, she focused on the simple act of providing some measure of information: "…him…with the knives…"

"You mean 'that' guy with the knives?" Mathias' voice rose in alarm as he intuited the nun's less than portrait-like description. Obviously, his more rational side informed him, she couldn't know that it is 'him' simply because no-one knew that yet; yet considering the somewhat paranoid atmosphere of the city, due to the Shakespeare Killer's recent activity, the unhappy occurrence of anyone appearing, and presenting a knife with overt and entirely inappropriate enthusiasm, was enough to ensure that 'he' – in some shape or form - had made an appearance.

"Yes."

At that moment the ambulance arrived: sirens howling, brakes squealing and the crew, all care, and with better things to do that play a game of political precedence with the police, swept the nun away. Mathias watched the ambulance disappear in a distant swarm of cars before he approached the Serjeant.

"Sarge?"

"Hmmmm?" The Serjeant was paying close attention to a bagel.

"The Sister informed me that she was attacked by the Shakespeare Killer."

"…And how would she know who the Shakespeare Killer is? She's a nun, not a policeman."

Mathias looked askance at the Serjeant, the thought crossing his mind that the Serjeant, deskbound for the better part of twenty years, wouldn't recognise a criminal if he was mistakenly locked in the cells for the night and, as such, was a fine one to talk.

"Maybe so, but I'm fairly sure she didn't stab herself."

"You never know with those religious types, they're apt to do some pretty strange things; anyway, didn't she say she was some kind of performance artist?"

The urge to shoot the Serjeant warred with Mathias' need to bang his head against a wall, his head that is, not the Serjeant's, he didn't want to damage any of the surrounding architecture "We're not here to discuss comparative theology, the woman got stabbed, are you saying that because we can't be sure it's the Shakespeare Killer we should just ignore it?"

"Why not?"

"Because we're here to arrest the people committing the crimes and not make moral judgements with respect to the people who are reporting them."

"But we have no evidence that a crime was committed."

"Alright then, precisely how would you," the use of the pronoun was edged, "describe a stab wound and a victim bleeding all over a city street?"

"An unfortunate accident."

"And do you realise the exponential increase in paperwork we'll get if it is the Shakespeare guy and we don't check into it?"

The Serjeant, ever lazier than a sloth on tranquillisers, took the point immediately, informed control, and signalled Mathias - and the other policemen that had arrived earlier - to follow him into the orphanage; at least he did up until the point where concerns as to his own mortality, due to the slight possibility that it might actually be the Shakespeare Killer, caused him to wave Mathias and the others ahead. The Serjeant, for all his heroic concern as to his own safety needn't have worried, for the assailant had already rendered himself harmless.

While the assailant was of no potential danger, transfixed as he was, the result of his actions was plain to see. The orphanage was now more charnel house than children's home and small bodies littered the floors like desecrated dolls, flung aside at an owner's whim; some were broken beyond all hope of repair, while other mewled weakly as they brokenly carried out a feeble search for some small measure of security. There was none to be had; for about them lay, just as broken, just as devastated, the bodies of their protectors; protectors no more.

He had scythed through them like a malevolent whirlwind before coming to rest and yet caution was a watchword for they did not know if the storm had ended or this was but the eye at its centre.


	28. Paper, Paper, Everywhere

_So here we are, another chapter. In my defense (this time…HA!) I would like to note that I was overtaken by TWO…count 'em, TWO plot bunnies…pernicious little bastards. One is an ongoing House M.D. fic and the other is a Firefly fic that appears to be writing itself…Of course, more stories is a VERY BAD THING…_

_I debated whether or not to stop this chapter where I did. Certainly, the point I did stop is a natural ending, however, I was also well aware that if I had continued I could well have gone on for another two-three thousand words, and frankly, I wouldn't put anyone through more of my alleged wit than absolutely necessary…_

_As usual, my thanks to 'tasha, the invisible beta, and to those authors of fan fiction who have inspired me of late..._

_Please read and review: shower me in love…_

_

* * *

_

_Detection is, or ought to be, an exact science, and should be  
treated in the same cold and unemotional manner. You have attempted to  
tinge it with romanticism, which produces much the same effect as if you worked a love-story or  
an elopement into the fifth proposition of Euclid.  
** —****Sir Arthur Conan Doyle**_

_It is an error to believe that the Roman Pontiff can and ought to reconcile  
himself to, and agree with, progress, liberalism, and contemporary civilization.  
**—**_**_Pius IX_**

_The most persistent sound which reverberates through man's history is  
the beating of war drums.  
** —**_**_Arthur Koestler_**

**_

* * *

_**

**SHAKESPEARE KILLER BROUGHT TO JUSTICE!**

"What do you think, Grissom? An appropriate headline?"

Gil Grissom looked dubious; mind you, he also looked shattered after just having finished an eighteen-hour shift examining forensic evidence to do with the entire Shakespeare Killer file up to, and including, the evidence collected from the orphanage, the latest scene from whence their suspect had been collected. "Well, a person who was responsible for an attack on an orphanage has been detained in police custody," he noted mildly

"Semantics. Mere semantics. This is the media, we're not after accuracy; anyway," and Agatha Babylon smiled impishly, he eyes alight with something akin to mischief "we couldn't possibly fit what you just said onto a headline."

Acknowledging that fact, Grissom asked a more pointed question. "What then, are you actually after?"

"After? As in what do I hope to achieve from such a headline?"

"Something like that."

"Well, I'd like peace in our time and a chance to travel and meet people. I believe the children are our future…"

Despite himself, Grissom grinned, "Nice acceptance speech, now, would you mind answering the question?"

"You're not going to believe me if I said that I believed that such a headline would fill people with hope and make them feel secure in their city once again."

"No."

"Damn, didn't think so. Alright then, seriously, sales." Catching Grissom's pointed look, Babylon raised her hands in acknowledgement of his view of such a mechanistic approach to the world. "Yes Grissom, so much for journalistic integrity, but if your paper doesn't sell then you don't actually have anything to pay for the care and feeding of your integrity; anyway, if I read the mood of the city correctly, they want blood, not some amorphous concept of justice. By telling the great unwashed that the killer has been brought to justice I just might grind off some of the sharper edges from the more feral members of society who, as we speak, are probably preparing to rip your suspect's throat out with their teeth."

"…and where is the justice in that?" He held up a hand to forestall Babylon, who was about to interrupt "it's like you've already convicted the guy before anything's been proven."

"Don't be naïve, Grissom, the public aren't interested in reality and due process, they want tidy conclusions and safely controlled intrigue," she shrugged, "how else would you explain reality television? Anyhow, irrespective of the actual process, if we perpetuate the idea that we're going light up like a Christmas tree anyone who even vaguely looks like they might be the killer then the majority of the population will consider that justice is being pursued and then they'll shut up and let you get on with it."

"…And what if this person, whom we happen to have in custody, happens not to be the Shakespeare Killer? Or, if they are this person, what if their mental capacity is diminished through illness? You're well aware, Agatha, that we have been examining the connection between the substitution of a placebo for the Pax Romana drug and the timing of the killing surges; we need time to investigate this, which rabble-rousing headlines like the one you propose don't give us."

"…But you have to give the people something, so you may as well give them what they think they want to hear…"

"Like what, Bread and circuses? Hell, let's go all the way and have a witch burning, you can bring the marshmallows and I'll bring my knitting; we'll even find someone to bring a violin and they can play as our justice system crashes own around our heads."

"Isn't that slightly overdramatic, Grissom, you know the world isn't black and white so why try and perpetuate a notion you don't believe in." Babylon shivered as a slight chill from her darkening thoughts wound its way down her spine "Sometimes the straight and narrow path doesn't necessarily lead to redemption and it ill behoves us to try and create such a path out of an environment that isn't fit for it. Also," she gestured at the screen before them, "this isn't about truth or justice. What are you going to do, dress up as Captain America and save us from ourselves? I think not. Look at you," she gestured at the weary man, "you can barely keep your head up and your eyes open and you're trying to debate the moral relativity of journalism - with me no less. If I didn't know you were so intelligent I'd assume you were an idiot, a brave idiot, but an idiot nonetheless."

Grissom, tired as he was, wasn't completely incapable of intelligent commentary, "That's all well and good, Agatha, but some of us have to draw a line somewhere, otherwise, why bother? Remember," he added sententiously "we define ourselves by our actions."

Agatha Babylon sighed heavily, certainly, she knew Grissom had a point, but a point her well-honed cynicism wasn't prepared to accept at anything more than face value. She was coming to hate it when her journalistic – tabloid if she was in the mood for a little self-flagellation - instincts came into conflict with her newly reawakened conscience. It wasn't so much a battle of the titans as it was a skirmish between two snakes in the grass; not, of course, that it was really appropriate to assign her conscience a reptilian caste, except for the minor fact that the damn thing had developed a propensity for slithering up and biting her on the backside when her halo started to slip.

"Dammit, Grissom, can't you let me write my story in peace."

"Is that what you really want? I mean, I do have other things I have to do; for example, I'm sure the lab could use some additional help processing what is bound to be an absolute wealth of new forensic evidence," his tone held the promise of something more than simple editorial commentary.

While Babylon might have scowled in annoyance, this didn't stop her libido stretching languorously much in the manner of an entirely over-satiated feline. Who would have thought that the apparently, extremely proper scientist, was so talented; maybe that also explained why she wasn't able to concentrate and thereby marshal her arguments sufficiently.

"I thought you were tired," She noted suspiciously, "you look tired…" (Bah, who was she kidding? Until Grissom had come along she had been laid less that thirty year old carpet, he could have looked dead and she would have been interested.) She was, after all, very tired herself; not that she was complaining mind, but if last night was to become a regular occurrence, then she'd better renew her gym membership, or take up running. Marathons. Lots of them.

The reporter in her blood threw up its hands in disgust and stormed off to a quiet part of her subconscious to sulk as she acceded to the mental prodding of her libido. "No, Grissom, I don't want you to go; and yes, you're right, it's probably better if I report events with some measure of regards towards accuracy; no matter how much I may hate myself for it later."

Grissom nodded understandingly, he knew that it would take the reborn sense of journalistic conscience now inhabiting his friend some small measure of time to take root; thus he cajoled, not pushed, and encouraged instead of demanded; of course, if he was being honest with himself he would have admitted that his interest in the woman extended beyond a concern for her scribal integrity. "Let's see if we can make you feel better about things shall we?"

Eight hours is never enough sleep, thought Grissom tiredly, as he slowly worked his way through the mountain of evidence that had turned one of the workrooms into something that more closely resembled a bureaucrat's nightmare (or wet dream) than it did a repository or organised, scientific method. Of course, Grissom's sub-conscious sardonically noted, if you'd actually got eight hours sleep then you wouldn't be so tired would you? While quietly acknowledging that his inner voice was indeed correct, he noted that he could do without the commentary and that if the voice didn't like it, then he could recommend a perfectly good lake for it to go and drown itself in.

Shaking himself mentally, much like a dog emerging from the sea, Grissom took a brief moment to ponder the strangeness that was his relationship with Agatha Babylon, before shrugging it off as a pleasant behavioural aberration that he would examine more closely at his leisure; not, of course, that he expected to get anything resembling leisure in the foreseeable future if this damn Shakespeare Killer case kept dragging on. Manfully, he ignored his sub-conscious' snide, _sotto voce_ comment that calling what he was doing with Babylon 'work' was the apex of mendacious hypocrisy, and he returned his attention to paper mountain.

Of course it was at this point that he was interrupted.

"Evening Grissom. How goes it?"

Turning in his chair, Grissom found himself face-to face with Greg, who was looking far too rested, relaxed and enthusiastic to one as fatigued a state as Grissom. With a sarcastic wave of his hand, which indicated the scale of the paperwork strewn about the room, the older man was clearly, if mutely, responded 'how the hell did it look like he was doing?'

To say that Greg was taken aback would have overstated the matter but he couldn't ignore the concern he felt looking at the older man. Certainly, it wasn't unusual to see Grissom push himself to the point of normal human endurance, but this seemed different; where previously, tiredness had always warred with an unquenchable intellectual fire, this time it was the fires of frustration that backlit the man's expression.

"Where are the others? Surely the importance of this case would demand some degree of resource prioritisation?"

Grissom shrugged, "Unfortunately, the rest of the criminal fraternity didn't decide to take a day off to celebrate our capture of the alleged Shakespeare Killer, in fact it would seem they feel some deep-seated need to make up for his absence." He took a moment to catalogue where the various members of the nightshift were. "Catherine and Nick have a triple homicide at the School for Performing Arts, something to do with Hamlet going horribly wrong if I remember correctly. Warrick's dealing with a multiple hit and run."

"How can you have a multiple hit and run?" Greg queried.

"Apparently, and this is only going by what was reported from the scene, there was a standard hit and run and then the people who stopped to help, three separate people I might add, were themselves hit and…err…run…over" he finished lamely, "Warrick's trying to determine if it was the original hit and run driver coming back to finish the job or, and I quote, 'there's a convention in town'."

Greg smiled grimly, "Sounds a bit like a comic I read once, where there was a serial killer convention…"

"…Sandman: A Doll's House…" Grissom interrupted.

"I didn't know you read comics, Grissom."

"I don't, Sandman is literature," the tone was the Grissom of old, that is, addressing Greg as if he was an ignorant, unlettered savage, and for all that it was mildly annoying to be, once again, reduced to peasant status, Greg felt some measure of relief that the historical Grissom was, in some measure, still present.

"What about Sara?"

"Something about some spiked punch at a school ball."

"That's not that unusual."

"There's a fairly substantial difference between brandy and what appears to be, at least judging from eye witness accounts, some form of hallucinogenic."

"Joy."

"Oh yes; blood samples from over two hundred students, Sara was ecstatic."

"Casualties?"

"Not as far as I am aware, although the report, when it came in, suggested that several students appeared to be under the misapprehension that they could fly, so I guess we'll just have to see whether or not any of them took the opportunity to test their belief from a suitably elevated position."

"Four of them," came the wry answer from the doorway. "It would appear they were going for distance."

"Any dead?"

"Fortunately, no – although we had two near drownings, from the pair who dived into the school pool, one minor impaling and a set of parents who will eternally grateful to the headmaster's anglophilic eccentricities."

"How do you mean?"

"The last of our pseudo-Icari landed on the privet hedge that marks the border of the school maze; the kid's a bit scratched, but otherwise unhurt."

"What about the hedge?"

"It's expected to make a full recovery."

Grissom nodded, satisfied that there hadn't been any resultant horticultural damage. "Thanks Sara. Could I trouble you to go and see if Brass needs any help?"

"What's up?"

"He didn't say, he was muttering something about nuns and minibuses though, so you might want to proceed with caution."

Sara didn't bother to answer as she left, although Greg noticed the bemused look that crossed her features. She seemed more relaxed, he noted, which could only be a good thing. While, due to his association with Rilie, he had become a little more tolerant and understanding of the female psyche, there was still, to his mind anyway, a huge difference between grumpiness due to permanent caffeine deprivation and what came across as ongoing case of acute PMS; his subconscious shrugged: must be a girl thing – or a boy-not-understanding-a-girl thing...or something…it was far too complicated for his simple male brain and he gave up and decided to follow the easier option of solving serial killer crimes.

"So Grissom, how far have you actually got?"

"Not very, really; especially since our international man of butchery isn't talking. Frankly, he's barely present. In fact, he's taken disassociation to a whole new level; I'd be impressed if it wasn't so aggravating."

"What about the Pax Romana link? Or the medical records?"

Grissom sighed. "We're still waiting on the Italian Government to release the full documentation relating to Pax Romana and SPQR. The subsidiary in South Carolina is now nothing more than an empty warehouse and as for the medical records, we need consent, and I believe I mentioned that our friend isn't in any state to give us consent. Actually, if he doesn't eat soon he won't be in a state to do much anything."

"I assume then that we haven't even been able to take a DNA sample."

Somehow, Grissom managed to look even more distressed; informed consent was indeed a double-edged sword. Forcibly changing his focus of attention, Grissom's gaze came on rest of the small package Greg held in one of his hands.

"What's that?" he asked, pointing.

"This? This is the toy bear we recovered from the apartment where the officer was stabbed."

"…And what are you doing with it?"

Greg looked everywhere except at Grissom.

"Greg…?"

"Ummm I took it home and now I'm bringing it back."

"You took it where?" The shift head's voice went up an octave.

"Home… well, not really home," he clarified, "Rilie's apartme…not helping huh?"

"You took evidence out of the building; are you insane?" Grissom took a moment to recompose himself; then decided it wasn't worth it. "Why? And I repeat, are you insane?"

"I'd already finished testing it, Grissom. Anyway, he looked lonely."

Grissom shook his head in disbelief. "He…looked…lonely. Greg, it's a fucking bear, it can't look lonely."

"I'll remind you of that next time I catch you talking to that pig foetus of yours."

"Not the point; the pig isn't evidence in a major criminal investigation, the bear is."

"How? It's not like he's," Greg paused and corrected himself "sorry it's, a witness…"

"The evidence is always a witness Greg, you should know that by now."

"…and I didn't…" Greg continued over the top of Grissom's interruption, "I didn't take the bear with me until after I had completely processed it…"

"That's not the point and you know it. At the very least it's tampering and, dependant on how the case turns out you could be charged, especially if the case fails and the police department needs a scapegoat."

"It's a shame the mayor doesn't work here then, the police have been using him as a scapegoat for years."

"Again," replied Grissom, teeth gritted in an attempt to retain some measure of patience, "not the point. We're talking about you and your actions, not the potential actions of someone who doesn't even work here; and…" he held his hand up to forestall the inevitable interjection, "I don't want to hear anything even remotely resembling commentary to the effect that the mayor doesn't work in his office either."

"You know me too well," Greg demurred with a wry smile.

"I do, God help me; I'm starting to think that I'm cursed." Grissom sighed, "Okay, irrespective of any potential consequences, just tell me why you did it."

Greg did a remarkable job of looking everywhere except at his boss.

"That's right," Grissom recalled, "it was lonely. Tell me, Greg, is this going to become a common occurrence? Are other pieces of evidence going to call out to you on long winter nights? Will they too be taken home, perhaps given a mug of hot cocoa before you tuck them in?"

"No," Greg muttered, "I'm not that far gone; the bear was special; don't ask me why, I couldn't tell you. Look, even Rilie wanted to know why I'd brought it with me."

"Well it's nice to know that one of you retains some small measure of sanity." For a moment propriety reasserted itself, "and may I ask, how is Rilie, it's been a while since I've seen her."

"She's well thanks Grissom, although I think I may have to stage an intervention with regards to her coffee intake; arabica isn't supposed to be a blood type."

"Maybe she needs it in order to put up with you; if it were me I'd be taking something a damn sight stronger than coffee."

"Like that bottle of whiskey Brass thinks he's hiding in his drawer?"

If the comment was supposed to faze Grissom, it failed. "Something like that; although you should know by now not to underestimate Brass, the whiskey is the drawer is a decoy, the good stuff is somewhere else; maybe you two should get together and compare notes as I imagine Jim takes as much care with hiding his whiskey as you do hiding that coffee of yours."

Greg's expression assumed a look of mock-horror, "Hush your mouth, no one shall ever learn my secrets."

"Not even Rilie?"

"Every relationship should retain some measure of mystery, Grissom, if you know all of your partner's secrets then what is left?"

"That may well be true, Greg, but if Rilie catches you hiding coffee from her your life will be measured in seconds."

"She'd have to catch me first."

"I'll have that written on your headstone."

"Isn't that a tad prosaic? I would have thought you capable of something far more profound."

"You assume you're worthy of profound."

Greg's eyes narrowed suspiciously "What are trying to suggest?"

"Well, I always thought Ogden Nash far more appropriate."

"Who?"

"Ogden Nash, a poet; amongst other things."

"I have the feeling that I'm going to regret asking, but what did you have in mind for my epitaph?"

Grissom grinned, his first real smile of the evening, "How about this:

The ant has made himself illustrious  
Through constant industry industrious.  
So what?  
Would you be calm and placid  
If you were full of formic acid?

"What are you trying to say, Grissom?"

"It's just as well Lewis Carroll didn't get hold of you" came a wry comment from the doorway, "or maybe Shelley: My name is Sanders, king of kings, look on my works ye mighty and try not to laugh too hard."

"What is this, a poetry reading? Anyway, Brass, aren't you supposed to be chasing nuns?"

"I was on my way back out, with Sara, when I heard Grissom bringing your parentage into question, so I thought I'd pay a visit."

"Joy."

"…And I thought you loved me, Greg."

Greg smirked "It's a love sorta like the love that dare not speak its name, except there's no love and I'm spelling it out."

"You're having problems with your analogies again, aren't you; I thought you were going to have that looked at."

"That was my allergies, idiot."

Brass grinned somewhat maniacally, "You mean there's a difference?"

"You know, Brass, I'm starting to think your nun obsession has nothing to do with crime, you've been sniffing their robes and the camphor from the mothballs has destroyed your mind."

Grissom, who had been watching the byplay with a degree of scarcely veiled amusement, interrupted "He might have a point, Jim, you've been acting awfully strange lately."

"How can you tell?" asked Greg, trying for all his worth to imitate the innocence intrinsic to his brief tenure as an alter boy.

"There is that," acceded Grissom, "However, based on my long experience with the subject…"

"Right here you know…" for all that he tried to look aggrieved, Brass failed miserably, grinning he turned his attention to his friend's mountain of paper. "Having fun are we?"

"More than you could possibly imagine."

"I can imagine quite a bit."

"On a policeman's salary imagining is all you'd be doing."

Brass shrugged, "True enough. You making any progress?"

"It would depend on how you define progress, if you determine progress by sheer weight of paper moved from point A to point B, then yes, however, if you are asking if I have anything substantive to add to the case, then no."

"Can I help?"

"That would depend on how quickly you leave and how far away you go."

"Charming. I think you hurt my feeling."

"Because as we both know," Brass joined in the recitation "you only have one." How is your feeling anyway?"

"I wouldn't know, it's chained to the steering wheel of my car, I thought I'd check on it later. What about him" Brass indicated Greg with a jerk of his thumb, "is he helping?"

"After a fashion." Grissom cast a sly glance at his young lab tech, "Greg was just discussing the state of some evidence with me."

Greg winced.

The wily old detective didn't miss the young man's reaction but decided to cut him a bit of slack; everyone in the department was under enough stress as it was without him compounding it with one of his 'observations'.

"Alright, I'd better go, I have to go and soothe the ruffled feathers of our local bishop who wants, and I quote, 'to know why the local constabulary are permanently engaged in a series of nefarious activities synonymous with the concept of harassment'; this from the folks who brought us the Spanish Inquisition."

"How many accidents have those nuns in the minibus caused since they've been in town?"

"They're fairly close to setting a new record; it's only the fact that they haven't managed to kill anyone that sets them back."

"Has this been explained to the Bishop?"

"Of course, his response was to ask why police stabbed the nun at the orphanage?"

"I'd love to have heard that explanation"

"Fortunately, I didn't have to, the bishop's secretary showed him, with an impressive degree of urgency I might add, the affidavit from the good, non-dead, sister who said the perpetrator wasn't wearing a uniform."

"Just wait," noted Grissom, "he'll probably decide that it was a plain clothes detective."

Brass shrugged, "Frankly Grissom, with the good bishop's known predilection for the sacramental wine, I wouldn't be at all surprised if he nominated the gentleman we have in custody for beatification."

"Well, with the speed with things are moving here, I wouldn't be surprised if he's beatified before we bring the case to trial."

"True enough, and knowing my luck, highly probable. All right gentlemen, have a good evening." As Brass exited the room they heard him pause and exchange a few quiet words with someone before the sound of his retreating footfalls echoed down the corridor.

"It sounds like you've developed a cynical streak, Grissom" Came a voice from the doorway, probably, both men surmised, the person to whom Brass had briefly spoken. The voice was familiar, but it hovered just outside the range of immediate recognition. Stepping out of the shadows cast by the doorway stood a presence long removed from the hallowed CSI halls, "Nice to see I'm fondly remembered," noted Conrad Ecklie wryly, with an expression that held equal parts of mockery and self- deprecating humour.

Greg was the first to recover "Ecklie!"

Ecklie spared Greg a pitying glance "He's very quick, Grissom; training to be a CSI, is he?"

Grissom's smirk in return was adroitly covered by the light censure his tone held "Now now, Conrad, I'm just as surprised to see you as Greg is; his reaction is hardly unwarranted."

"So what's new?"

Grissom's eyes rolled. By his count he'd recited his lack of success no less than three times in the last forty minutes. If he had been at all religious he would have started to think that he had, in some way, offended the gods, and that this was their punishment; for him to sit and achieve nothing, whilst beset on all sides by a rancorous chorus of harpies cheering him on in his Sisyphean endeavours, thus he limited his answer to simply asking if Ecklie had read the newspapers.

Apparently, Ecklie's time in hospital had done nothing to diminish his somewhat jaundiced view of the professional world, "By newspapers, do you mean the excrement that's posing as alleged journalism, or what I get from reading between the lines?" He cast a sly glace at his colleague, "although I have to admit that, of late, the inimitable Ms Babylon has been demonstrating a degree of restraint I previously thought well beyond her capabilities; you wouldn't have anything to do with that would you, Grissom?"

Grissom looked pained. Never one to mix his personal and private lives, Ecklie's question had caught him somewhat unprepared; admittedly, not to the extent that falling into a relationship with Babylon had, thus he went with avoidance as his opening gambit.

'I'm not entirely sure what you're referring to Conrad."

Ecklie grinned, "You'll have to excuse my wheeling out an old and exceptionally bad pun, Grissom, but denial is not just a river in Egypt..."

Greg continued, "You were aware that your relationship is the talk of the lab don't you, Grissom?" The young man glanced sideways at Ecklie is a fashion that was clearly intended to be theatrical, "how stands the betting pool?"

Ecklie's response was as ingenuous as a girl in a red cape visiting her grandmother, "How could I possibly know that, Sanders? I've been sick. In hospital, no less; I haven't had the slightest opportunity to find out the odds let alone place any money down."

"Do you two mind?"

"Not at all, Grissom, you stay right there and I'll be with you in a moment."

Grissom's eyes narrowed dangerously, and, although his tone was one of sweet reason his face assumed a calculating mien, "Tell me, Conrad, how is it that you, hospitalised and all, are aware of the existence of a betting pool?"

"I couldn't possibly comment"

"Greg, would you care to provide some measure of enlightenment?"

"Not particularly…"

"…And might I ask why?"

Greg managed to look both sheepish and smug simultaneously, "Would you believe I have too much riding on the outcome?"

"…And precisely what, pray, is this 'outcome'?" Two pristine chips of frigid ice framed the stress on the word 'outcome'.

Ecklie came to Greg's rescue, "Leave the boy alone Gil, you know he can't possibly tell you."

"Why would that be?"

The day shift supervisor grinned with shark-like glee, "Obviously, because if he told you the potential outcome might be influenced thereby rendering the pool invalid; that would be ethically unsound."

"So what you're telling me," Grissom clarified, "is that it is morally acceptable to wager on the outcome of my personal relationships, but that it is not acceptable to inform me of the criteria surrounding said wager on the basis that that is immoral."

Ecklie and Sanders regarded each other as they mentally worked through the permutations inherent in Grissom's thesis; then as one, they replied.

"Yes."

Grissom shrugged, he'd known the answer was a foregone conclusion but he'd required an answer from them for reasons of his own. "Just for that, you can both sit down and help me, after all…" he paused for dramatic effect, "it would be the moral

thing to do."


	29. Chapter 29

_**FINISHED! ...COMPLETED!** The nightmare, the bane of my existence is complete …**GOD!** I thought it would never end. So much for what was supposed to be a simple one-chapter story that posed an idea, that Greg left the lab…it became a monster._

_In the eternity I've been writing this thing, I've gotten married, bought a house and, heaven forfend, become vaguely civilised, and all through it this story has been here a companion (or, more likely, a lodestone). I think I'll miss it now that it's gone._

_Or not._

_Over the period of writing I've been gifted with several generous, wonderful beta-readers most of whom I scared off into the hills because I am a demanding, bad-tempered bastard (and those are my good points). Anyway, sincere thanks and recognition to **Michmak**, **Emily** and **Kat**, but most of all, to **'tasha**, fellow grammar nazi and nag-exemplar, I doubt that without her harpy-like screeches of "Where's the next chapter" I doubt this would have ever been finished._

_In writing this fic I've learnt a lot, most especially about myself but more importantly I've had some good laughs._

_Finally, to you, the reader, especially those mad bastards who've stuck with this from go to whoa (or should that be woe?) I thank you! Even those who've not liked what I've written, I thank you (especially the slash writer who threatened to stop reading when I diverted too far from canon)._

_Now it is done, and there is only one thing left to say, NEVER AGAIN. At least not a CSI fic...I don't think I could stand it._

_Goodbye. God Bless and as the late, lamented Ronnie Barker would have said: "It's goodnight from him."_

_

* * *

_

_The will to power is not a being, not a becoming, but a pathos –  
the most elemental fact from which a becoming and  
effecting first emerge  
_**Nietzsche: The Will to Power**

_Democratic institutions are quarantine arrangements to combat that ancient  
pestilence, lust for tyranny: as such they are very useful and very boring._**  
Nietzsche: The Wanderer and his Shadow**

_There is not enough love and goodness in the world for us to be permitted  
to giveany of it away to imaginary things.  
_**Nietzsche's Human, all too Human**

**

* * *

**

Grissom regarded his colleagues with a resigned air. Of course, such a pose wasn't entirely new, although in this instance, as the subject was himself and his extras-curricular relationships, and not the theoretical and procedural shortcomings of the various CSIs, he felt somewhat exposed – actually, chained out naked on a rock waiting for the dragon to come was more accurate, but that is neither here nor there. The feelings of resignation were also due, in no small part, to the mountain of paper, comprising various files, pieces of evidence and the other accoutrements of the Shakespeare Killer case, that, despite countless hours of work, seemed no smaller than when he had started his review. In fact, the various piles appeared larger than when he started, even with the combined help of Ecklie and Sanders who had joined him in his task. Now, after several hours reading fine print and examining various pieces of evidence through a plethora of magnification devices all three were tired and rapidly approaching a state where focusing their eyes become problematic.

"Coffee, Ecklie? Grissom?"

The pair regarded the younger man with grateful looks, "I assume this is going to be the good stuff from your secret supply and not the rubbish posing as coffee in the break room."

"Sure, Ecklie, it wouldn't be any fun poisoning the pair of you while you're this tired, I wouldn't know if I'd been successful or if you'd simply gone to sleep."

"Actually," noted Grissom, "I'd take it as a mercy if you'd put me out of my misery; either that, or bring me a nice brick wall with my coffee so I have something to bang my head against."

"I'll help," offered Ecklie.

"What?" inquired Grissom, "bring me coffee?"

"No. Bang your head against a wall."

"That's very charitable of you Conrad, although the degree of enthusiasm with which you're extending the offer causes me to harbour some doubts as to the true intent of your motivation, to that end, I'll take the coffee."

"I'm sure you will, Grissom; it's not particularly trusting of you, or, for that matter, particularly brave, but I guess I'll escape with my feelings relatively intact. As to my motivation, well, we must defer to those tasks that the good lord deemed us most worthy of fulfilling. In this instance, Sanders' purpose is to make coffee, mine is to bait you and you, well I'm not too sure about you."

"He appears to be quite good at looking tired and stressed and he does a good line in 'woe is me'," noted Greg, in a very poor attempt at a _sotto voce_ aside

"In that case coffee might not be the best idea; it might add to the melodrama."

Grissom looked mournful, "You wouldn't deny a man coffee would you? That's just cruel and unusual. I'm a good person, I pay my taxes and feed my piranha, the least you can do in return is give me my duly earned coffee."

"Grissom, that was truly pathetic."

Gil smirked, "I know, I was quite proud of it myself."

"When did you last sleep Grissom?" despite the levity of moments past, Greg actually sounded concerned.

"Sometime yesterday? Why do you ask?"

"Because if you were proud of the last comeback, as pathetic as it was, you're more tired that you realise; that last comment wasn't worthy of Nick, let alone you," he looked to Ecklie for support, "maybe you should call it quits for the night and get some rest."

Ecklie nodded, "He's right, Gil, if I started sounding like Stokes I'd want to get some rest." Ecklie paused for a moment, "No, scratch that, if I started to sound like Stokes I'd be thinking about throwing myself off a cliff, but that's beside the point, maybe Sanders is right, maybe a break is the best idea."

Normally Grissom would have felt somewhat annoyed at an intimation, no matter how well intended, that he was in someway subject to the weaknesses endemic to the human species – a species, he readily acknowledged, that could, at times, be defined by its fallibility. He was about to respond that he was fine when a yawn more akin to a gaping chasm tried to make off with the top of his head leaving him no choice but to admit that he was indeed tired.

"Will you go home?" asked Greg, sensing the opportunity to push home this momentary advantage. "Do you want me to call Ms Babylon to come and collect you?"

Maybe it was the thought of being collected from his place of work by his…his whatever the hell she was, that made Grissom balk. Again, the intimations of normal humanity stalked him like a giant stalking thing and he felt enveloped in a cloak of uncertainty.

"No. I want to stay. I will, however, have a break. How do you gentleman feel about accompanying me to my office and we'll attempt some semblance of relaxation."

Despite the fact that the invitation sounded more like an invitation to Royal Garden Party than a simple request for shared company over coffee, Greg and Ecklie agreed, if for no other reason than that they had got Grissom to take a break and such a victory deserved a celebration. Rising from their chairs, the three men moved in companionable silence through the near-deserted hallways of the building towards Grissom's office.

"I'll see you two in a moment," said Greg, as he made to divert towards the lab area.

"Where are you going, Greg?"

"You said you wanted coffee, remember? I have to go and get it from the lab, I mean, it's not like I hide it in your office, Grissom."

"Maybe you should."

"And how would that benefit me?"

"Well, you'd have my eternal gratitude," replied Grissom, in a tone that was pure facetiousness.

"That and fifty cents will get me a cup of…" Greg paused in his recitation of the well-known cliché; "actually, it wouldn't even get me a cup of coffee seeing as how it would now be located in your office."

" I would be more than happy to…"

"…Lend me some of my own coffee, how very generous of you."

Ecklie and Grisson watched as Greg turned on his heel and headed for the lab, "You know, Gil, that boy has come a long way."

"Not really, Conrad."

"How do you mean?"

"I've long since come to the conclusion that he was already there and that it is us, well me, I suppose, who has finally opened my eyes enough to look at the scenery."

"That's all very metaphorical, but noticeably short on tangible information, would you care to translate?"

"Preconception is a dangerous thing, especially when applied to oneself."

"Jesus Gil, have you been secretly sipping the formaldehyde from that damn pig of yours? I mean, can you get any more Delphic?"

Grissom regarded his colleague with amused tolerance and, he silently admitted, companionable good humour, "Okay," he conceded, "it's like this. Greg originally left the lab because he was sick of being taken for granted and, much to my shame, being taken for an idiot solely because he appeared and acted differently. I have, of late, come discover, that not only is Greg far from being an idiot but that I should have known better to judge a book by it's cover."

Ecklie smiled in understanding, "Did you never look at his college transcripts when you hired him?"

Grissom had the grace to look embarrassed, "I never got around to it. Greg was hired when I was at a conference and when I got back we were swamped with work and by the time we managed to get a bit of breathing space it was like he was part of the furniture; a highly competent piece of furniture, so I never bothered."

"I take it you've looked since," noted Ecklie, clearly implying that he was already well aware of the relevant information.

"Oh yes." The shift head visibly winced, "His chemistry and bio-chemistry marks are little short stratospheric; I suppose it's to his credit that he never bothered to put the others in their place when they talked down to him."

"Maybe he should have; some of your staff, as competent as they are, need to be reminded occasionally that they aren't the sole reason for the Earth's orbiting of the sun."

"Maybe so, but I don't really think it's in his nature to do so; either that, or he just gave up caring. Anyway, that's beside the point. Due to our, or, if you like, my lack of attention, we've essentially lost him and now that he has other goals he's pursuing we won't be able to retain his services permanently and that loss of knowledge and ability is the last thing an organisation such as ours needs."

"For example?"

"Well, I was up at LVU several months ago…"

Fifteen minutes later, Greg wandered into Grissom's office, arriving just as the conversation between the two men appeared to be tailing off.

"Why are my ears burning?" he asked, although, from his expression, he didn't appear overly concerned that he appeared to have been the primary topic of conversation.

"I was just telling Conrad what you were doing at LVU," replied Grissom.

"Very impressive, Sanders; who knew you were civilised?"

"No one here."

"Touché."

Grissom, smiling, rose from his chair and walked over a cabinet from which he withdrew a very battered looking coffee maker, "I assume you have the relevant equipment."

Greg held up a small bag of ground coffee.

"Excellent." Grissom paused, "What took you so long? The lab's only just down the hall."

"There were people in the lab, I had to wait for them to go. Then I had to grind some beans and then clean the grinder."

"You grind your beans here?"

"Surely you're not suggesting that I let coffee grounds sit for an extended period?"

"Well, why not?"

Greg looked horrified. "You dare to call yourself a scientist, Grissom. The grounds oxidise, it ruins the coffee."

"It's only a cup of coffee, Sanders," noted Ecklie, clearly bemused at the young man's passion.

Greg's mouth worked, but no sound came out.

"I think I broke him."

"No," said Grissom, "I think what you said counts as blasphemy; you've just attacked one of the pillars of his religion."

"Shut up, Grissom," muttered Greg absently, becoming engrossed in the preparation of the sacred beverage, "or you won't get any."

"Shutting up now."

"I can see why you're a shift head." Noted Ecklie, admiringly.

"Conrad?"

"Yes?"

"Shut up."

All three men smiled.

From that point on, the conversation decanted into relaxed small talk – insofar as the three men were capable of such under the present conditions.

About an hour passed before the trio decided to return to work; after all, they had agreed to Grissom's contention that they were only taking a break, nevertheless it was patently obvious to Sanders and Ecklie that Grissom had no business returning to work such was his obvious level of fatigue and, more importantly, the frightening resemblance he now bore to a zombie – a highly caffeinated zombie, true, but a zombie nonetheless.

Frustration began to set in almost immediately as fatigue – irrespective of the quality of the coffee - took its inevitable toll on the cognitive faculties of the three; especially Grissom, but also Ecklie, as his recent escape from Hospitraz was continuing to affect him. Greg, while also tired, although not to the same degree as his older colleagues, was suffering more from the effects of nervous anticipation as he considered the incipient arrival of the competition; to that end he found himself idly twirling the small, plastic wrapped bear, the one he had returned to the lab, in his hands. One spin returned the bear to a position where it directly faced the young man and its solemn gaze triggered a spark of something previously not considered by those undertaking the analysis of the case

"You know Grissom, I've just had a thought;" he gestured abstractedly, "would you mind passing me the officers' reports for the apprehension of the suspect at the orphanage."

After a moment of searching or, more accurately, digging, Grissom handed the relevant documents to his younger colleague with a questioning look, "Do you plan of sharing this thought; or shall it be let go, bereft, like an orphan in the wilderness?"

"Hold on," Greg murmured, his eyes scanning the cramped script carefully, searching for that single detail, that single memory that the bear's gaze had prompted. "Do you remember, Grissom, when reading this, how the suspect was found?"

"He was, if I recall the incident to which you are referring, staring as if transfixed, at a small child."

"Correct. However," Greg continued, "I don't think it was the child that he was staring at."

"Then what?" asked Ecklie, who was starting to feel somewhat unloved as the dialogue unconsciously excluded him.

"And I quote from the document: "The child, no older than five or six years, was dressed in simple clothing and was in possession of a small stuffed toy; on closer examination, a bear." Greg held the plastic-wrapped bear beside the report, "I don't think it was the child that stopped him; I think it was the bear."

"You're serious?" Grissom wasn't scoffing, but his gaze was somewhat askance as he examined the unusual suggestion.

"Do you have any better ideas?"

"Well…no…" muttered Grissom, trying not to sound overly defensive. "What do you think Conrad? Is it plausible?"

"The bear? It's not what I would have thought but experience has taught me, as well it should have you Grissom, that we can't make assumptions about these things; anyway, with everything related to this case and its happenings, a small stuffed bear would be one of the least perplexing things we have encountered."

Grissom sighed. "I can't argue with you there." Making a decision he stood "Alright we see if the bear has any effect on our guest; obviously, we'll need a police officer to formalise the interrogation process."

"Tell you what," said Ecklie, "I'm going to leave now, shall I have reception page Brass and have him meet you outside interrogation room one?"

"That would be fine, thanks, Conrad."

"No problem, Gil. G'night Sanders."

* * *

It had taken some time but now a measure of awareness had returned; awareness defined not only by a sense of spatial recognition but also awareness in the sense of self that all people retain on an unconscious level.

Gone was the almost constant susurration in his head. He found the quiet unnerving and yet didn't know why and this frightened him; not, of course, that he could actually identify the sensation as fright so long had he been disassociated from the reality of his humanity. _'Cogito ergo sum' _Descartes had written centuries ago, and it may as well have been centuries since he had last thought as himself, as a man, and thus he was not.

In any event, even if he had been able to think he had no memory with which to contextualise anything.

The room in which he was held was relatively non-descript, that is, it held no remarkably distinguishing features unless, of course, one considers the simple existence of four walls and a door a series of features worthy of notice, which, if you ever took the time to listen to Chief Calliope's rants on the latest police budget, you would have done so. Fortunately, or not, the man in question was about as aware of the Chief's identity as he was of his own and therefore the displacement of the room caused little comment.

It was quiet

He found the silence disturbing but couldn't identify the reasons for this. A psychiatrist might have posited that the extended period of intellectual dormancy resulting from his condition that he had experienced had reduced his reasoning centres to little more than atrophied components of an autonomic system; of course that would have meant nothing to the man.

As he fought against the mental inertia that held sway over him the door to the room opened and three men entered. Entropy may have indeed held sway over his being but he was still able to count to three. Of the three men, two were older, and one very obviously younger with what appeared to be some sort of exotic bird nesting in his hair – if the latter thought was somewhat incongruous he couldn't have said why. Again, without knowing why, something drew his attention to the youngest of the three and more specifically to something he held in his hands. At first, the item appeared somewhat indistinct, wrapped, as it was, in plastic.

As the men came closer he was able to identify what the package held; it was a small bear, it was HIS bear.

Then he remembered.

Everything.

And his heart broke apart.

* * *

The sudden collapse of the suspect caused the three men to be momentarily stunned into immobility before training overtook surprise and Brass raced – inasmuch as racing was possible in such a confined space – to the side of the fallen man and felt for a pulse.

"Brass?…Brass!"

Jim Brass shook his head tiredly "Sorry, Gil. No pulse. He's dead."

"But what about the case?"

"Screw the case, Grissom; can you imagine what the press are going to do with this? 'Shakespeare Killer Dies in Police Custody' is going to be a banner headline across every paper in the state; in the country if we're really unlucky."

"But we didn't do anything."

"And who's going to believe that? Especially when considering that one of his last victims was a policeman; the police don't exactly have a stellar reputation when dealing with crimes against their own."

"Come on Brass, this is Las Vegas, not New York."

"All that means is that the police are more likely to push people off the roof of a casino instead of beating them to death in the cells, or having the suspect accidentally drown themselves in a toilet."

"Well, we're alright then as the suspect died in police custody and not from a fall. Q.E.D."

"As arguments go Grissom, that doesn't fill me with any confidence. Anyway, the papers are going to be more upset due to their being unable to acquire their pound of flesh or pint of blood through the sensation of a trial; face it Grissom, we've taken away the media's sport and that leaves us as their sole target." Brass paused to take a breath "can you guess how excited I am by this? Can you guess how even more excited the Chief and the mayor are going to be?"

Grissom shrugged insouciantly, more than anything he could have said this conveyed how very little he cared about the reactions of the mayor and chief of police and that, even if he did care, there wasn't a hell of a lot he could do about it. Just quietly, and completely unofficially, and of course, totally innocently, he would have a word, or maybe two words - which might, just might happen to slip from him in a post-coital haze - with Agatha, she'd know how to handle the media.

"Maybe it's for the best," noted Greg; his voice quiet and subdued.

"How do you mean?" asked Brass, too emotionally drained to inject even a smidgeon of sarcasm into his question.

Greg brandished a folder at the policeman, "Lab results; they were dropped off while you and Grissom were discussing the merits of the public and media reaction to our, well… now, I guess, our corpse."

"And…?"

"Well it's definitely him, and by him I mean the person whose blood evidence was found at the killing of the family and from DNA evidence found at Mister Bates' apartment; probably more than enough for a conviction on at least those five murders."

"Why just those five?"

"You know, as well as anyone at the lab and in the taskforce, that there was no DNA evidence left behind at any of the crime scenes previous to the family killing. Any link made to them would at best be circumstantial and even then weakly circumstantial. You know the DA wouldn't even try to prosecute those cases when the more concrete evidence is enough to put this person away."

Brass shrugged, "True enough. Tell me though, why do you think this," he indicated the corpse "is for the best."

"It's an ending. Proper closure if you like. People can only move on from this; I think that's probably a good thing; at least it's one less thing to make a political football out of."

The two older men regarded silently communicating in a way possible only by those long exposed to each other before Grissom nodded at Greg. "You're probably right; but there's still going to be a godawful mess to clean up."

"True enough." Greg stopped to look at his watch, which had decided to take this opportune moment to beep at him. "Look, sorry, I have to go."

Grissom smiled. "Preparation?"

"Yep." Greg confirmed. He looked nervously at the older man, "You'll be there?"

"Of course."

"You'll tell the others?"

"Again, of course. Now go; we can tidy up here."

"Okay, thanks Grissom. See you later Brass"

"What was all that about?" inquired Brass as he watched Greg leave the room.

"I'll tell you on the way back to my office; we have reports to write."

"Joy."

* * *

No meeting had been arranged, yet they had gathered one-by-one, drawn by what would have appeared to an outsider (or maybe a zoologist) as a herd-based homing instinct. Nor did the group appear to communicate, for no one spoke. Even the normally robust banter that characterised their interactions was absent. Yet it was not an ominous silence, nor one of bitterness or regret, instead it was one of puzzlement as each member of the assembled group tried to figure out why they each held a personalised invitation; more to the point, a personalised invitation from an anonymous source.

So they had come, as they normally did when presented with a particularly new, troubling or insoluble problem, to the person who usually had an answer for everything: Grissom; except Grissom didn't happen to be in his office at that point in time; thus the assembled CSIs – and Brass - waited, in much the same manner as assembled students did when waiting on the pleasure of the headmaster.

Inevitably, it was Catherine, never one happy to sit and stew, who broke the silence.

"So, what is this concert thing?"

"That would be Concert Finale to the Nevada Composition Competition," replied Nick, reading from the invitation.

"Yes, thank you Nick, however, I too can read," came the acerbic response, "what I meant, in a non-literal sense," she took time to glare at the Texan, who, as usual, was completely oblivious to her ire, "was why did we each get one of these, and perhaps more importantly, from whom?"

"The answer to your question, or the latter part thereof, would be Greg." Came the response from the doorway as Grissom entered his office.

"Did he acquire some free tickets?" inquired Sara, "if so, it was nice to him of think of us," she paused, a considering look on her face, "but considering what he listens to I am surprised that he would even have tickets to a classical concert let alone consider inviting us."

For a brief moment, Grissom's expression darkened as he thought back to when Greg had identified the classical music playing in Grissom's office when he came to offer his resignation. Then later, when he ran into Greg at the university and discovered what his former lab technician was studying. If nothing else, his young friend, for in truth that was what Greg had become, had demonstrably reminded Grissom of the error of judging by appearance, and now, at the lab, surrounded by his colleagues and friends - intelligent, talented people - he was once again, reminded of that folly.

"Actually, Sara," amended Grissom, "Greg has tickets because he is one of the finalists."

"Grissom, that's not funny," remarked Catherine; "you shouldn't make fun of Greg like that."

"…And why would I be making fun of Greg?" the older man inquired, "Do you see him here to make fun of?"

"Well no…" She had to acknowledge the truth of that statement. Grissom was never one to stab someone in the back when they had a perfectly good face.

Before Catherine could continue, Grissom continued inexorably, "Is it then that you think Greg is incapable of undertaking something like…for existence… composition…or that, heaven forefend, he might actually be good at it?

Not even Nick would have missed the obviousness of the trap Grissom was laying, but Catherine, almost immobile in disbelief, walked straight into it, "But it's Greg…"

"That wouldn't rank as one of your more cogent arguments, Catherine," noted Brass, "would you like a shovel to dig yourself in deeper?" There was no mistaking the malice in the detective's tone; for as much as he liked the woman, he was also a firm believer in cutting down to size those people whose opinion of themselves transcended the bounds of an acceptably polite reality. It also wasn't in Catherine's favour that Brass held a high opinion of the _subject-du-heure_

"Oh come on, Brass, Grissom, admit it, Greg is not the sort of person you would expect to be involved in something like this" she gestured for the other CSIs present to add some measure of support to her statement.

"And what, Catherine, would you expect someone like Greg to be involved in?"

Not even Catherine was going there.

"So Catherine," Grissom continued, "in light of your observations, may I assume that you're not coming to the concert?"

The fiery redhead regarded her superior in such a manner as to indicate that his sanity was in question, "Of course I'm coming…it's Greg."

* * *

"So, Sanders, how you feeling?"

"Is it too late to run away?"

"I guess not, but I really can't be bothered tracking you down, hog-tying you and dragging you back to face the music."

Greg visibly winced. "That pun was appalling, Rilie, I don't deserve that in my delicate state."

"Harden up boy, it won't be that bad. I mean all that's happening is that your original piece of music is being played in front of several thousand people. Then all you have to do, once the music has finished, is come onstage, in front of said seething mass, to answer a few questions from the conductor before you slink off."

"That's all, huh?"

"Yes; and do try and sound vaguely intelligent when you're being asked questions, it would be exceptionally bad form for you to come off sounding like an idiot." The young woman gave Greg, who looked like Bambi after he'd found that his mother had been drawn to face Godzilla in the world boxing champs, a measuring look, "on second thought, how about you shoot for coherent and hope for the best?"

"Thanks for the vote of confidence." He grinned wryly, "although I have to admit, you're probably right, as long as I don't stand there and go 'eep' I'll be fairly happy. Also, for some strange reason, I gave all my complimentary tickets to the people from the lab so it's not like I'll have to deal with a credibility issue with at least one section of the audience."

Rilie wasn't entirely sure if Greg was joking.

"I thought you kept that masochistic streak of yours for the bedroom."

"True, but it wouldn't do for me to appear on stage in a leather g-string and a studded collar."

"It wouldn't do for you to turn up in the bedroom looking like that either, I'd hate to think how your performance would be affected if I collapsed in hysterics."

"That's not what your godmother says."

"You leave Heather out of this."

"Why? She was just full of useful advice when I dropped her complimentary ticket off."

"I thought you said you'd given them to the lab staff."

"I did, except for those tickets that I didn't."

"Whom have to seated her next to?"

Greg grinned evilly, "Who do you think?"

"That's a horrible thing to do to Grissom, especially seeing as he's being taken advantage of by that miniature viper who's cunningly disguised as a reporter."

"Nah, I wouldn't do that to Grissom, anyway, it would appear that Babylon's been good for him."

"What? Is she putting him in touch with his feelings?"

Greg shrugged, "God knows, although I'd be fairly certain she's putting him in touch with something. I didn't really want to ask as with Grissom you never know the precise degree of candour with which he's going to answer your question; I believe he's of the opinion that that passes for a managerial technique. Anyway, to answer your question, I'm putting Heather next to Nick."

"That's just plain unkind, Greg."

"I know, but I'm sure Heather will cope; she might even teach him something."

"I hardly think she's going to chain him to a wall in the middle of the auditorium."

"You never know, and if I'm lucky it will distract people from the music."

Rilie considered her godmother and found that she had to agree; social propriety and the necessity to teach someone an appropriate lesson were never things to necessarily intersect in Heather's worldview, and if they did it was generally considered a perfect opportunity to provide polite society with an object lesson in moral relativism.

"You may be right, but while my godmother may have a different perspective on what constitutes 'appropriate' it must be noted that she also has exquisite manners and as such she would never be so rude, or so gauche, as to interrupt your moment in the spotlight."

"Do you think she would if I asked nicely?"

"Actually, Greg, I'm pretty sure Heather would do pretty much anything for you if you asked nicely, I'm given to understand, through various sources…"

"Various sources?" Greg inquired.

"Oh all right," groused Rilie, "Heather has told me directly that she thinks you're good for me; something about being a civilising influence."

"Christ, I'm just a lab tech and a sometime music student, not Francis of Assisi."

"What are you implying, Sanders?" Rilie's tone was low and dangerous.

"Nothing," he said, backing away, "now how about we go get ready?"

* * *

The CSIs, dressed in their various interpretations of 'to impress', arrived outside the auditorium in ones and two. Sara looked elegant, yet refined and Nick had managed not to look like he'd just ridden in from the set of Bonanza. Catherine too, was elegantly attired but with an additional layer of slink that could never in a million years hope to be pulled off by Sara; the big surprise, however, was Jim Brass, whom had discarded his regular disguise of an unmade bed and appeared quite dapper in a dark grey suit.

"Well don't you clean up nice."

"Why don't you try that again Catherine, this time without the side order of snide."

"Whatever do you mean, Brass?"

The old policeman sighed resignedly and skewered the strawberry-blonde with a razor-edged glare. "Really? All right, here it is plain and simple. Yes Catherine, you're attractive; now get over it. Just because the rest of us haven't been graced with physical attributes that continue to defy gravity, despite our advancing age, doesn't imply a lack of couture-based knowledge, or for that matter how to match our socks with our underwear and ties, or whatever."

Catherine was taken slightly aback. "Really, Brass, I simply meant you looked nice; and you must admit, the occasions in which we see you clad like a civilised member of society are few and far between."

"Not helping yourself, Cath," noted Nick, while Sara quietly remarked to Brass that Catherine could try for the other foot before the others arrived if she made a special effort.

Brass, however, raised his hand in apology, while Catherine and her superior attitudes annoyed him on occasion he knew she meant nothing by her remark "It's okay. Sorry Catherine, I'm a bit on edge."

"Why on earth would you be? You look good."

"Not for me, you twit, for Greg."

Catherine ceded the point, "True, I understand; but you do look good nonetheless."

"Every old dog retains a few tricks, Catherine, no matter how old they might be," he paused, considering, "how else do you think they managed to become old?" The sometime detective paused to check his watch. "Where're Grissom and Warrick?"

"Warrick was tidying a few things up back at the lab but he called me just before I arrived to say he was on his way; I don't know about Grissom though," said Nick

"I wouldn't worry," said Sara "here he, sorry, they," she corrected herself, "come now."

"They?" asked the young Texan.

"It would appear," stated Brass, in a bland tone, "that Grissom has brought company; the redoubtable Ms Babylon."

"I wonder what he sees in her?" murmured Catherine, not counting on the fact that years of journalistic training, essentially consisting of eavesdropping, had granted Agatha the auditory abilities of a bat.

"Let's see" began Agatha, as she and Grissom stopped before the others, "I'm attractive, intelligent, funny and a stimulating conversationalist and" she continued, gifting Catherine, and her dress, an extremely measuring glance, "I'm a world-class fuck; what's your excuse?"

Grissom, to several people's surprise didn't appear even slightly abashed at his companion's comment; instead the glint in his eyes clearly indicated his amusement. Brass, for his part, was equally amused, especially in consideration of another mumbled Sidle comment to the effect of 'look, both feet!'

Before hostilities could commence, Nick interposed himself into the conversation to note that he'd just received a text from Warrick to say that he was caught in traffic and that the others should go in without him and that he'd see them inside.

By general agreement, and to stop any moves by Catherine to scratch Agatha's eyes out, the group began to move towards the auditorium. Conversation descended into the realm of banal pleasantry and one-word response as the party sought, in the manner of drug-addled dodgems, to navigate their way towards the seats allocated to them, doing their best not to trip over wilful children – obviously dragged to the event by proud parents intent on making the little wretches watch their hated older sibling's special moment - fat matrons dressed in a fashion so as to make them appear much like a Hawaiian-shirted road island and short, elderly men coutured with the intent of making them appear influential (and not so much like an overweight penguin).

Eventually, they reached their seats and found, much to their surprise, Warrick, already seated, with an insufferably smug look on his face.

"I thought you were stuck in traffic," said Sara.

"Oops," replied Warrick, not looking particularly sorry at all.

"All right, smartarse, just how long have you been sitting here?"

The dark-skinned man, his expression amused, looked at his watch, shrugged, then turned to the person, two seats over, who presently had her back turned to the group.

"Excuse me, Lady Heather? How long have we been here?"

The exotically lush woman turned to the group with a smile that was decidedly feline, and almost predatory in its composition. "About a half hour, after all, one likes to be on time for such prestigious events."

Catherine, who was already having an evening of monumental gaucherie, couldn't help herself from glaring at the woman she had, on previous encounters, viewed to some degree as a rival. "How did you get a ticket?" she demanded.

"Tickets have been available for some time, but in this instance I was given one by Greg."

The idea that Greg might have some form of relationship with Lady Heather rendered Catherine silent; it didn't, however, stop Grissom asking the question that was very obviously on the tip of his colleague's – and everyone else's for that matter – mind; although, to be fair to Grissom, he was motivated solely by polite curiosity instead of fears for the potential safety of the lab tech should he have fallen under the influence of a person of such ill-repute. "How do you know Greg?"

Heather smiled at her former liaison, "Rilie's my god-daughter," which was more than good enough for Grissom, who, smiling amiably at the woman, took his seat.

As everyone followed suit, Nick looked around quickly to place where he was seated. Such, perhaps, is the nature of musical chairs, and the punishment for moving too slowly, for it became readily apparent that the only open chair – clearly not by coincidence if he had been privy the thoughts of Greg – was by Lady Heather.

Nick had never actually met the woman but he'd heard enough stories to make him wary, very wary. Deciding that reality couldn't be that bad – she was certainly attractive enough – and that he ought to be fairly safe in a crowded auditorium, he moved to sit.

Lady Heather turned to watch his careful progress, amusedly taking note of the nervous darting of his eyes; this was going to be fun.

* * *

"So, Mister Sanders, are you ready?"

"Define 'ready'."

The professor gifted the younger man with a slightly bemused look, "Ready for things to change."

"Change? How so, it's only a concert."

"Ah yes, only a concert; the thing is that this concert is the first public performance of anything you have composed…"

"…That's not entirely true," interjected Greg, "I remember how my variations on Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star were warmly received when the were played at my school's Christmas show…"

Maybe Mueller felt somewhat sorry for the younger man, either that or she was showing unusual restraint for one whose normal responses tended to be issued through clenched teeth "…And precisely how old were you at that time, Mister Sanders?"

"…Nine…I think."

Mueller sighed, "Very well, other than that, no doubt, meritorious occasion this will be the first public performance of your work; that changes a person."

"Mozart was composing at five," Greg mused, as he drifted off into a consideration of the temporally challenged composer in apparent ignorance of the professor's somewhat philosophic commentary and increasing, if wholly in character, aggravation.

"You'll be decomposing immediately if you don't start paying attention," snapped the professor confirming that, even on her – apparent - best behaviour, her patience could only be stretched so far.

Greg, pulled abruptly back from his historically inclined considerations, and not being completely bereft of sense, a state engendered through long exposure to the tidal mood swings that epitomised the personalities at the lab, decided that paying attention was probably in his best interests.

"Your pardon, Professor Mueller," he stressed her title to reinforce his apparent contrition, "you were saying?"

"I was saying that the first public performance of your music will change you; for good or bad I do not know; either way, you should be prepared for it this change."

"How do you mean, 'it changes' people."

Professor Mueller regarded the young man with a thoughtful expression, "For some, it is the realisation of a dream and a confirmation of something that has always lain within, for others, like myself" she added with only the vaguest hint of recrimination and bitterness for it was obviously a wound long acknowledged and, if not accepted, at least healed in some measure, "it confirms that while there may indeed be competence, and perhaps some measure of talent, it is not a talent that will set the world alight; it is a bitter thing to learn."

"…And what happens to those people? I mean, those people who have to face that disappointment"

Mueller laughed, somewhat ruefully "Obviously, some accept it, I mean, what else can you do?" she shrugged theatrically "the truth is inevitably the truth whether you like it or not. Of course, there are those that deny this harshest of truths and continue to fight against it, usually to their detriment." She shook her head sadly, unconsciously lapsing into the transliterative syntax of her native tongue "Many good people, I have seen, fall victim to this; the truth welcomed was not, it is such a waste. You Mister Sanders, I think, shall not fall."

"Because I have talent?"

"Perhaps; but do not get ahead of yourself. I do not think, Mister Sanders, no matter what happens, that you will fall because you have already seen too much. That as important as the music might be you know that there are always other avenues, other paths." Again, the professor shrugged. "Perhaps that helps your music, I do not know. Anyhow, I hear they are now ready for you," she stepped back and gestured him towards the wings, "go. And Mister Sanders?"

"Yes Professor?"

"Good luck."

* * *

The conductor turned to face the auditorium; his somewhat reserved professional mien undercut somewhat by the exhilaration for the music that shone from every pore of his being.

"Our next piece comes to us from a student entered into the masters programme at the University of Las Vegas. Gregory Sanders has composed a piece of music that is at once stark and atonal, yet at the same time haunting and somewhat romantic." The conductor paused, clearly considering his choice of words carefully, "Of the pieces that myself, and the orchestra, have rehearsed this past week, this composition has perhaps been the most divisive in terms of the response it has engendered amongst us; personally, I have found it to be challenging and thought-provoking if not more than a little melancholy; ladies and gentlemen, I present to you: D.O.A: A Concerto for the Dead and Dying, by Gregory Sanders."

Turning to face the orchestra, the conductor raised his baton and with a nod and a firm sweep of his hand began.

A single, mournful note from a lone oboe echoed through the auditorium.

The conductor was correct. As Greg watched from the wings he could see the conflicting emotions on the faces of the audience. Some were clearly alienated and their displeasure evident in their very posture. Others, clearly enraptured by the music, scarcely seemed to breathe, so caught up were they in the ebb and flow of the minor chords waxing and waning in counterpoint to a slowly building crescendo that was at once melancholy and yearning. For Greg, the music evoked a spiritual allegory, that of breaking free; at least that was how he had envisioned it at the time of writing surrounded as he was by the rictus-like images of cruelty and pain evoked by the bodies in the morgue. Doc Robbins had intimated to him on occasion that sometimes he felt that death was a release for some people, for at least when you died you were, in some sense, free. In a way, Greg too had broken free, and his return to music was, in some way, a return to life – or, at least a return to being alive; not, of course, that he would have put it in those terms, for Greg it was enough that he was happy.

The young man's reverie was broken, not by the end of the music, but by the echoing silence that followed the final note. Oh well, he thought, better go out and face the lions. Then a single person started clapping, then another and soon it was not a crescendo of music washing over him but a crescendo of appreciation. Through this, the conductor's voice cut; "Ladies and Gentlemen, the composer, Gregory Sanders."

And Greg stepped into the light.


End file.
